


The Dance

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Distrust, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 16:05:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 46,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13150146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: The relationship between Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey was complicated from the very first time that a wily con artist appeared on the FBI’s radar. It should have been a straightforward format of cop versus criminal. However, over the years, the dynamic took some unforeseen turns as it was re-shaped and molded into something else.Much of this fic follows canon, although I have skewed things a bit to fit this narrative.





	1. Chapter 1

"Come on, El, I need to get there early so that I can scope the place out and get the lay of the land," Peter Burke urged his wife.

"Peter," Elizabeth sighed as she carefully applied her lipstick, "you make this sound like we're going to be doing cloak-and-dagger reconnaissance before some epic battle."

"Know your enemy," Peter quoted smugly.

"And this 'Neal Caffrey' person is your enemy?" El asked innocently.

 "He's a suspected con artist who, it just so happens, is probably behind so many scams, frauds, and forgeries that the Bureau needs a score card to keep track," Peter harrumphed. "We don't have enough solid evidence yet to nail his ass, and, unfortunately, that makes him untouchable for now. To answer your question—yes, that does make him the enemy."

"So, let me get this straight," El drawled, "he's the FBI's enemy, not yours personally?"

"It's one and the same," Peter said as if that was the most logical conclusion.

"But," his wife drove home a point, " _you_ are the only one taking a Saturday night to get an up close and personal glimpse of your bête noir. That sounds more like an obsession to me."

"Can we just go?" Peter pleaded, not really wanting to have this discussion with his perceptive spouse.

~~~~~~~~~~

A short time later, husband and wife reached a small pub in the city. It was "open mic" night and, according to the word on the street, Neal Caffrey was going to be putting in an appearance. This certainly wasn't the type of establishment that Peter would ever frequent. Small Italian bistros were more his speed. Therefore, it wasn't long after they had descended the concrete steps and entered the dusky atmosphere that Peter began to feel very awkward. With his conservative suit and tie, he looked like a nerdy accountant who had taken a wrong turn after crunching numbers all day in a claustrophobic little office cubicle. All around him were men in ripped jeans and casually buttoned Henleys, and women in, well, Peter could only come up with the word "costumes" to describe the leggings that looked sprayed on and the sheer low-cut blouses.

El seemed to blend right in, as usual, with a nod to the bohemian. She had on a torso-hugging black tunic and a flowing peasant skirt with the fringe on the hem cascading over sleek black boots. Her hair was carelessly knotted on the top of her head and errant tendrils framed her face. It was times like this that made Peter very aware of the gap in their ages. Tonight, he felt like a very old man.

"You could have warned me," he whispered to El, "I'm going to stick out like a sore thumb."

"Peter, you've come here to get a sneak peek at your nemesis," El replied playfully. "It's only fair that he gets a look at you. Your fashion faux pas tonight will just even the playing field a bit."

"This isn't a game, El," Peter snapped. "This is serious!"

"Yes, Hon, I get that," El answered mysteriously.

They ordered perfunctorily—El a white wine and Peter a beer. Then they sat through some really raunchy comedians and even a bad poetry reading before Peter got his first real look at Neal Caffrey in the flesh. The demon from Peter's mind was tall and slim, dressed as casually as his audience in worn, faded jeans and an open-neck chamois shirt that fit him like a glove. His thick dark hair was messy, and his blue eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled softly from his seat on a tall bar stool.

The lights dimmed once again, and the spotlight seemed to surround this unknown performer like an embracing aura as he gently cradled a Gibson guitar on his lap. When Caffrey began to play soft melodious chords, his long fingers caressed the neck of the instrument like a sensuous lover. His pleasant tenor voice made haunting lyrics from old songs seem new again. Suddenly, the poignant essences of famous legends like Paul McCartney, Elton John, and Billy Joel filled the space between the brick cellar walls and it was magical. You could have heard a pin drop in the crowded room. It was as if patrons didn't want to break the enchanted spell.

But, as they say, all good things come to an end. However, the audience seemed to think that the end had come far too soon. They demanded one more song. Caffrey ducked his head for a second and smiled shyly, but when he looked up again his blue laser stare seemed to burn a hole through Peter. As smooth as silk, he began to croon a sweet version of "Truly Madly Deeply," a melancholy love song by an Australian group called "Savage Garden." 

_I'll be your dream_

_I'll be your wish_

_I'll be your fantasy_

_I'll be your hope_

_I'll be your love_

_Be everything that you need_

_I'll love you more with every breath_

_Truly, madly, deeply do_

_I will be strong, I will be faithful_  

_'Cause I'm counting on_

_A new beginning_

_A reason for living_

_A deeper meaning, yeah_

As the last syllable faded softly away, the small room was suddenly plunged into darkness. When the anemic illumination finally returned a second later, Caffrey and his guitar had disappeared.

"Wow," El murmured softly, as she continued to stare at the space where the troubadour had been a second before.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Peter demanded irritably as he signaled the waitress for the check.

"I suppose it means that your obsession is the whole package—young, talented, and sexy," El finally managed to find the words.

"Oh, no, no, no," Peter chanted. "You do not get to go there, El. Don't let him get under your skin. That's his modus operandi. Caffrey seduces marks so that they let their guard down. He's calculating like that. We've had reports from hard-as-nails businesswomen, savvy society matrons, and even well-educated female professors who have fallen for his charming act."

El gave him an innocent wide-eyed look as she asked for clarification. "So, are you saying that he only plays his evil tricks on women?"

"Well, no," Peter admitted. "He can finagle and be manipulative to get his way with men, as well."

"I'll just bet he can do whatever he sets his mind to do regardless of gender," El said smugly.

Peter looked at his wife strangely before opening the car door so that she could sink down into the passenger side of the Taurus sitting at the curb.

El was not about to let the conversation end here. "How old is he—I mean, he looks so young. Is he even legal?"

"We're not really sure because we can't seem to unearth a birth certificate for him," Peter explained. "With all his aliases, that's been tough. 'Neal Caffrey' just seemed to appear out of thin air. As for his age, well, I suppose he could be anywhere between twenty-five and thirty-five. He seems to be able to morph into any persona and look the part, so who knows what's real about him?"

"What's real about him is that he is very pretty," El answered. "Is he gay?"

Peter looked nonplused by this question coming out of the blue. "We've heard that he has a girlfriend, but I'm not sure if that is a smokescreen or the real deal. Why does it matter?"

"I'm thinking that maybe he's a bit more flexible about his love life than you or the Bureau are aware," El speculated.

"What are you insinuating, El?" Peter seemed perplexed.

"I'm saying that maybe your little, troublesome quarry has a crush on his dogged pursuer. Neal Caffrey never took his eyes off you while he sang that love ballad. He made it personal. Surely you noticed, Peter. You're not that obtuse. How did that make you feel?" El asked softly.

"We are not having this conversation!" Peter said heatedly as he turned on the car radio.

"Maybe not tonight," El sighed. However, the wise woman was sure that they would revisit this issue at some point down the road. In the meantime, she found the idea of her staid and steady husband paired with a beautiful wild child to be a forbidden and delicious fantasy.

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter found it hard to fall asleep that night. Even though he would never admit it to his wife—or anybody else for that matter—he knew this whole parry and thrust thing with Caffrey had become very personal. The slick little con artist had fired the first salvo across Peter's bow, and, God help him, Peter had a visceral response to the overture. Yes, Neal Caffrey was handsome and debonair, but that wasn't responsible for the magnetic pull that Peter felt. This irritatingly clever criminal was smart—really, freakin' brilliant. And that excited the determined FBI agent as much as anything sexual. Nonetheless, he would never sell his soul to make an arrest. It had to be by the book and not tainted in any way. After all, Peter assured himself, I'm solidly in the heterosexual column—always was and always will be. However, a little bit of his traitorous id whispered "maybe."


	2. Chapter 2

"What the hell is wrong with you, Neal!" Mozzie bellowed after Neal had informed him of last night's escapade in a funky little night spot. The two men had been leisurely walking the perimeter of the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Fifth Avenue when Neal raised the topic with his mentor.

"Nothing's wrong with me, Moz," Neal objected. "I just needed to have a little fun. You know how it is—all work and no play makes Neal a dull boy."

"No," Mozzie drawled, "it makes Neal a reality for his pet Fed. Now, he not only knows your name, but he has also seen your handsome mug to go with it."

"Aw, c'mon, Moz, Burke already knew my name and had my picture long before last night. I just wanted to make it more genuine for him. It's like a dance for us."

"You were taunting him," Mozzie replied, "and your dance partner is going to waltz you right into a federal penitentiary if you're not careful."

"But I'm always careful," Neal claimed adamantly. "I've got the schematics for the upper wing of the Met indelibly etched in my brain. I know where the cameras are as well as all the pressure plates and the exit doors. I know where every squeaky board is in the hardwood, and I know the schedule for the patrolling guards. If you perform your magic on the alarm panel, the Seurat and the Matisse drawings are as good as ours and we can take off for the French Riviera tomorrow."

"But our buyer is located in Bern," Mozzie reminded him.

"Well, since I'll be doing all the heavy lifting at the museum, surely you can take care of the business transaction afterwards," Neal said. "You don't need me for that little chore. Just launder the money and put it into our rainy-day fund in the Caymans."

"You're heading to the French Riviera because you think Kate is there," Mozzie predicted like a fortune teller.

"She'll be there somewhere, and I'll find her," Neal said with a determined air.

"Neal, stop and smell the roses. The two of you fight more than you get along. You're like oil and water. Maybe Kate finally decided that enough was enough and is out and about looking for greener pastures."

"We may have our heated squabbles from time to time, but the make-up sex is amazing," Neal said with a dreamy look in his blue eyes. "Kate loves me and I love her. We're star-crossed and damned, so how do you defy Fate?"

Mozzie sighed. "Just have your head in the game tonight, mon frère. My neck is on the chopping block, too, if this all goes south."

Neal just rewarded the worried little man with a shit-eating grin, but that did nothing to allay Mozzie's fears.

~~~~~~~~~~

Of course, just as Neal had foretold, the heist went off without a hitch. The purloined drawings were immediately rolled and carefully secreted inside sturdy leather art tubes. The historical masterpieces then accompanied Mozzie on his flight to Switzerland before the theft was ever discovered the following morning. Neal, however, didn't leave right away to wing his way across the Atlantic. France could wait for a little while. He knew Mozzie would have been livid if he suspected that Neal was going to lag behind, but the young thief was tired of the lectures and cautionary tales. So, the less the little bald man knew at this time, the better.

Neal was still high on the adrenalin rush hours later, and the endorphins continued to surge through his veins. He had stayed in New York to revel in his victory, and, perhaps, just to see how Peter Burke would handle the situation. Neal suspected that Mr. Special Agent would be beyond frustrated, and that made him smile. As the night hours lengthened, the smug cat burglar drank some very expensive Saint Emilion Bordeaux to bring himself back down to earth. Finally, he laid on his bed and watched tonight's daring mind-movie play over and over in his head. Without a doubt, it had been a stupendous victory for the bad guys. However, it was a hollow victory if one were forced by circumstances to revel alone.

Neal's thoughts now turned to the absent Kate. She should be here beside him, languidly stretched out naked, while telling him how audacious and clever he had been. Watching Neal successfully break the law was the ultimate sexual kink for her. She would kiss him deeply and he'd let his tongue tangle with hers as he slid over her silken body. He'd twist her long dark hair in his fingers and force her head back so that he could suck at the sensitive spot beneath her ear. She would moan and make feeble protests as he held her down and hovered above her aroused torso and captured limbs. He knew that she would twist and keen in his grasp, but at the same time buck her hips up so that her lower belly could feel his heated erection. As always, Kate was demanding, wanting immediate gratification.

Neal was all for living in the moment, but he was also the romantic one in the relationship and drew the foreplay out as long as possible. Maybe the only time that Kate truly surrendered herself completely to him was during their primal fucking, and he didn't want it to end. Since Neal knew every hot spot of Kate's topography, he always took his time visiting each little furnace, teasing and tantalizing, as he kneaded, nipped and sucked. With a con man's slippery tongue and a thief's nimble fingers, he was able to wring quivering orgasms from her. Time after time, he would salaciously lap up her arousal, loving the smell and taste of her. When he finally slid deep within her wetness, he'd rut furiously with his own desire until it was now Kate who wrung every drop of need from him.

Tonight, however, Neal lay panting and alone in his bed with his own hard cock fisted in his hand. There was no Kate to bring him release, and he was suddenly angry. He loved her, damn it, but she made loving her so very hard. Maybe he should just give her what she wanted and let her walk away. Perhaps that was for the best because Neal subconsciously suspected that someday, somehow, he would meet his match and go down hard. He certainly didn't want to take her down with him.

When that time came, then he'd really be on his own. Moz would go on with his own life. He was the ultimate survivor—like a cockroach who would withstand a nuclear holocaust and be just fine. In time, Neal surmised that he'd latch onto another promising protégé, or maybe he'd decide to go solo. Perhaps, in a nostalgic moment, he would think of the unsophisticated, raw kid from St. Louis and shake his head in regret. Or maybe, he's forget Neal altogether.

It must be the alcohol fueling these angst-filled emotions, Neal decided. Nevertheless, whatever trigger was responsible for this sudden emotional crash caused unbidden, dark thoughts to fill his mind. It was like imagining his own death scene. Would it be Peter Burke who came for him in the dark of night? Would it be the angry FBI agent who would pummel his irritating adversary not with his cock, but with punishing fists? Would Burke be the one to restrain him with handcuffs or put a gun to his head and ask the wanton criminal to beg for his life? In every scenario, it was Peter Burke who was looming over Neal and holding him down. The aroused young man could almost feel the strength and heat of the man above him, and that was enough to cause thick milky ribbons of cum to suddenly spurt over his hand onto the sheets.

When the spasms finally subsided, and Neal was able to catch his breath, his sweat-soaked head fell back on the pillow and a degree of lucidity returned. His first coherent thought was succinct and troubling. "I am so, so fucked!"


	3. Chapter 3

Neal had made an accurate assumption regarding Agent Peter Burke. The older man _was_ very frustrated and seething and a lot of other adjectives that could describe his current frame of mind as he stood before the Met's exhibition entitled "Leonardo to Matisse." It was late morning, hours after the museum had opened its doors to the public. Nobody had been aware that a recent theft had occurred until a docent-led group had finally noticed the little pieces of cardstock tacked on the bare spaces where two invaluable drawings once stood. Drawings by Seurat and Matisse were inexplicably missing.

The FBI checked for clues to solve the mystery. They discovered there had been no gaps in the security. Uniformed night sentinels had made their hourly rounds in quiet, darkened galleries and had seen no intruders. Alarms had never sounded, and the complacent men had ended their shifts and gone home knowing they had taken their responsibilities seriously and protected their turf from invaders.

"Could it have been an inside job?" a new transfer hesitantly asked Peter. "It would have been impossible for anyone from the street to have gotten in after the museum had closed for the night."

"The 'impossible' is his favorite challenge. It's like catnip for him." Peter whispered.

"Beg your pardon, Sir?" the recent recruit from Quantico asked quizzically. "To whom are you referring?"

"Neal Caffrey!" Peter spat out the name. "Neal friggin' Caffrey, that's who."

Of course, the new member of the team had heard that name bantered about the office from time to time, but it wasn't like the dude was public enemy number one. To his knowledge, no indictments had ever been brought against Caffrey. However, his immediate superior, Special Agent Peter Burke, sure seemed to have a hard on for the guy. Maybe this was some form of tunnel vision.

"Sir," the new guy on the squad tried once again, but Burke cut him off before he could complete the sentence.

"I know what you're thinking, Jones. You think that I'm perseverating on one man to the exclusion of every other thieving mastermind in the world. But I know it's him in my gut! And even if my intuition is not concrete proof, these seal the deal for me," Peter said heatedly as he shook the two transparent plastic evidence bags in his subordinate's puzzled face.

Jones, of course, knew exactly what was contained in those glassine bags. Maybe they convinced Peter Burke of Caffrey's guilt, but the younger agent couldn't figure out the significance of two small pen and ink representations of twirling dancers. The intricately drawn pair were dressed in the finery of another era—the male in a sharp, pristine tuxedo with tails, and his female partner in ridiculously high heels and a swirling sequined gown. In the first little vignette, that was no bigger than a 3 x 5 file card, the two figures were dancing sensuously with the woman's head of close-cropped dark hair resting on her taller partner's shoulder. In the second drawing, the man was dipping her backward causing a delicate arch to form in her spine as she gazed up at him with adoring eyes.

"So, you think that Neal Caffrey drew these?" Jones was tiptoeing carefully through this highly charged mine field. Peter Burke was his superior after all, and could make Jones' career, or break it with just one negative review.

"He drew them," Peter said adamantly, "and now he's probably laughing his ass off and congratulating himself for being so clever!"

"I'll try to run him down," Jones promised, "to see if he has an alibi."

"Well, good luck with that," Peter said sarcastically. "Caffrey's like smoke and will have faded away by now, and it will be an exercise in futility to locate him."

"Okay," Jones drawled. "So, when I come up empty-handed, then maybe I can take a look at some other known art thieves—just to cover all the bases," he hastily added. He needed to keep on Burke's good side.

"Knock yourself out," Peter muttered under his breath as Jones hurried away.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Aw, Hon, he got away again, didn't he?" El commiserated as Peter sat slumped on the couch turning the two small pen and ink drawings of the dancers over and over in his hands.

It was now two months later, and the theft from the Met had been relegated to a cold case storage box in the FBI's file room. The famous Seurat and Matisse sketches had never surfaced. Initially, the FBI and Interpol had shaken down every fence in their arenas, and, to a man, they all denied being involved in any kind of nefarious transaction surrounding the stolen goods.

"That kind of thing is just too fuckin' hot to handle," one claimed virtuously.

"Stuff like that is radioactive," another said convincingly. "Nobody wants to get anywhere near it."

The FBI finally decided that there had been no middleman involved. Most likely it was a door-to-door transaction—from the Met to the home of the buyer. Peter knew there were such collectors in the world. Plenty of wealthy entitled people coveted what they couldn't have, even though they were richer than Midas. So, they took the circuitous route and acquired them illegally. It wasn't for personal gain, at least not monetary gain. They desired the unattainable, and, even if they couldn't display their trophies to the world, knowing that they possessed them was enough gratification.

Now El's words wrenched Peter back from his wool gathering to the present. He knew that she wasn't referring to the stolen art from the Met. Over the last eight weeks, there had been a string of stupendous thefts from one renowned and venerable museum after the other. If it was Caffrey, he was cutting a wide swath through Europe with amazing speed and daring. London, Rome, Sweden, Madrid—all fell victim to the mastery of his expertise. Of course, just as before, there was no hard evidence against the suspected criminal, just coincidental sightings of him in the cities right before the deeds were done.

"For the life of me, I can't figure out what prompted this mania," Peter confessed. "Usually, Caffrey is a very careful planner and takes his time. Now he's acting like a kid in a candy store, grabbing shiny things left and right. It makes no sense because it seems like he's suddenly off his game and taking stupid risks. And, if there's one thing I know about Caffrey, he doesn't like to take risks."

"I think that he's just showing off," El announced her conclusion.

Peter gave this some thought before he finally agreed. "You may be right, El. According to surveillance by Europol, he seems to be by himself. There have been no sightings of that mysterious girlfriend of his. Maybe Caffrey, in an idiotic schoolboy kind of way, is showing off in an attempt to impress her and entice her to come back to him."

El rolled her eyes. She certainly hadn't been referring to some old girlfriend, but then she reasoned that you couldn't make a blind man see what was right in front of him.

"Well, all of those crimes are out of your jurisdiction, Peter. Maybe the trick to catching him would be luring him back into your playground." El mused. "What kind of carrot could the FBI dangle that might cause him to focus on New York?" And 'you,' she added silently.

The wise wife certainly had her own motive for wanting Caffrey's return. When Peter was hot under the collar chasing the young thief, he was also really hot under the sheets at night. El was no fool. She had seen the handsome young man in the flesh and it hit her like a ton of bricks. Apparently, her husband had a type—slim-hipped, dark-haired, and blue eyed. El and Neal could have been brother and sister in another life, so it made her wonder, not for the first time, who Peter fantasized that he was fucking in their bedroom at night. It wasn't that she was jealous. Hell, she was grateful to a young criminal for making her sex life over-the-top sublime. The only thing that would make it any more intense would be for Peter to have the two objects of his sexual desire in their bed at the same time.

~~~~~~~~~~

Unfortunately, at least for Neal, Elizabeth Burke's theory was right on the money. Neal _had_ been showing off, but it was an attempt to win Kate back. He had finally located her in Stockholm, but finding her with Matthew Keller had been an ugly shock.

Keller was no stranger to either Neal or Kate. A few years ago, they had teamed up for a time during an odyssey of high-end heists in Scandinavia. The threesome became inseparable in _every_ way. Kate was insatiable with two young studs her bed, and Neal was a willing participant who was learning the intricacies of this new experiment as he went along. It was exotic and intoxicating for a kid who had originally hailed from the white bread mentality of the Midwest.

However, in time, Neal saw Matthew Keller for what he was—a sociopath who loved to maim and kill, sometimes just for the thrill of it. Neal might be a lot of things, but a killer wasn't one of them. In fact, he hated knives, guns, and any type of violence. He preferred to use his razor-sharp intellect and killer good looks to get the same results with a lot less bloodshed. He had talked Kate into leaving with him in the dead of night and getting as far away from Keller as possible. What in the hell had possessed her to return to the madman?

Neal had to know, so he confronted her one evening in a French walk-up apartment on the Rue de Paix. Keller was also present and looking smug with a cruel smirk on his face.

"You were getting boring, Neal," Kate simpered when he asked for an explanation. "It was always more of the same—you and Mozzie plotting and planning for days on end, making lists of this and that, checking the lists three times, and then checking them some more. It was tedious and monotonous and that whole gig was such a total yawn. It was fun while it lasted, Neal, but you know how I adore bad boys, and the badder the better," Kate announced as she sashayed over to Keller and snuggled into his embrace."

"Kate, this won't end well for you. He won't keep you safe like I will," Neal pleaded, all the while hating himself for groveling in front of Matthew Keller.

In the end, Neal and Mozzie were the ones who left Europe behind and returned to the States. Of course, Neal was far from happy, but Mozzie was definitely relieved. Now they could get back to business as usual with no more over-the-top risky hijinks.


	4. Chapter 4

Of course, after that little debacle with Kate, Neal had moped and pined as if his heart had been shattered into little pieces. Mozzie patiently nursed him back to the land of the living with nourishing chicken soup and lots of robust red wine. They were almost back to baseline once more. The little homeopathic practitioner had just returned from a coffee run and had several newspapers under his arm. He was met by an excited and exuberant Neal.

"Burmese rubies, Moz!" the young man exclaimed as he pointed to a topographical rendering of the country recently renamed Myanmar. "It's doable. All we'd need is some serious start-up capital, a bush team, and maybe a helicopter to make it happen."

Mozzie executed an impressive eye roll. "Neal, do you seriously want to risk having the life sucked out of you in some Southeast Asian prison? Thanks, but no thanks, mon frère! If, God forbid, I ever have to do time in the slammer, my cell will be in the good old USA where there's at least a toilet, running water, and three squares a day, even if they're not gluten-free."

"Aw, c'mon Moz, I'm trying to think out of the box here," Neal wheedled. "Nobody has ever pulled off something like this, so it will be epic."

"Let's set our sights a bit closer to home, my friend," Mozzie declared as he spread the various printed publications out on the dining table. He then turned each to the "Arts and Entertainment" section. Prominently featured in newspapers representing major Mid-Atlantic cities up and down the East coast were one-page ads. They all were heralding an unprecedented traveling exposition of Fabergé eggs on loan from the Hermitage in St. Petersburg, Russia.

"These little beauties will be gracing the second floor of the Smithsonian's Museum of Natural History in Washington DC for a two-week period," Mozzie whispered almost deferentially. "In fact, they'll be given an appropriately honored space in a room adjacent to the one where the Hope Diamond is displayed."

Neal looked interested, but also, skeptical. "We've never attempted a heist at a Washington museum before, Moz. Since it's the nation's capital with a ton of visitors, how much security do you think they have?"

"Neal, it's a natural history museum, for crying out loud, with mummies, dinosaur bones, and even a friggin' butterfly conservatory," the little bald man said petulantly. "The staff and the security force have probably been on the job for years. By now, they're all most likely close to retirement age, near-sighted, and partially deaf. They're not exactly Secret Service agents protecting the President. Think about it—how much does a rare Monarch moth go for on the black market these days? Probably bupkis. And does anybody really care? We're not exactly talking about a Vermeer or Gainsborough painting in that museum."

When Neal still seemed hesitant, Mozzie continued his argument. "This is a rare opportunity, Neal. A two-week window to snatch one of those historical, not to mention, exquisite creations by Fabergé. It makes my mouth water to think about it. No matter which one we choose, each egg in the collection is small, so snagging one and getting it out should be easy enough. Hell, we could then smuggle it out of the country in a shoe tote with nobody the wiser."

"Okay, Moz," Neal finally couldn't deflect his friend's enthusiasm any longer. "Let's start the research and see what we're up against."

~~~~~~~~~~

 Three days later, they were still in the prep stage.

"The museum is huge in width, taking up almost a couple of city blocks," Mozzie explained as he poured over the architectural schematics of the Smithsonian building. "However, it only has three actual floors. The first and second ones have display areas open to the public. The third floor is for staff only, and probably contains a maze of offices and storage depots for the stuff that has been put on hold for a while."

"Well, that's good," Neal agreed. "No need for base jumping on this caper."

"By my calculations, the best point to gain access is through the roof via a ventilation duct," Mozzie postulated. "You're actually skinny enough to fit through, and you can rappel down on some nylon rope. I'll have all the alarms deactivated before your feet ever hit the floor. The Fabergé eggs are on the second floor in a special case. Once the power is cut, that should render the pressure plates under them defunct as well. Pick any little egg that looks pretty, mon frère, then rearrange the rest so that the absence of one temporarily goes unnoticed. Maybe they won't take a closer look until they're ready to pack them up to continue on their tour."

"You don't think that the curators are going to be counting noses, especially after the utility company gives them a heads-up about a slight interruption in service during the previous night?" Neal asked dubiously.

"Oh, they undoubtedly will get their knickers in a twist and start hunting around in a frantic tizzy," Mozzie predicted. "That's why we need to give them something else to think about—something so outrageously incredulous and totally insulting that they'll be gnashing their teeth."

The little man paused for a second as he considered his turn of phrase. "You know, to say that someone is ‘gnashing their teeth’ is not uncommon verbiage. However, how does one gnash, exactly? And has anyone ever witnessed such a phenomenon?"

"Focus, Moz," Neal said tiredly. "I'm guessing that we're going to create a diversion of some sort, or leave a red herring."

"Why, yes—yes, indeed, we are," Mozzie seemed almost giddy. "I've gone over catalogue lists of every little artifact in that museum until my eyes began to cross. However, I persevered and found the perfect ruse! There is a small numismatic collection located in a side wing on the first floor. In that very room are some interesting little Renaissance medals fashioned by Niccolo Fiorentino just sitting placidly in a display case. You're not just going to take them, Neal. Oh no, my friend, you are going to be swapping them out for something else entirely."

Mozzie then whipped a plastic tray onto the table. At first, it appeared to be a candy mold for wafers, but when Neal looked closer, the bottoms of the depressions had a distinct profile. He picked it up curiously and discovered that it was a mold for making Susan B. Anthony dollars."

"You know, mon frère, eBay does, indeed, have everything," Mozzie crowed. "Coincidentally, those Susan B. Anthony dollars are just about the same size as the Fiorentino medals. So, we make a few bogus coins with chocolate, wrap them in foil, and ‘ _voila_ ,’ we have our doppelgängers! Just be sure to make them stand out in some way so they get noticed without too much hard work on the part of the staff."

"Seriously, Moz?" Neal sighed as he studied the actual medals in the Smithsonian catalogue. "These medals are really ugly and crudely done. They can't bring much on the black market. Is it even worth going to the trouble?"

"Says the crazy man who actually stole Martha Washington's love letters from Mount Vernon!"  Mozzie sniped.

"Okay, okay," Neal held up his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. "You win. I'll start heating up the double-boiler!"

~~~~~~~~~~

Previously, the FBI had been doing their prep work as well. They were about to set a trap. The Bureau knew that the elusive con man was back in the States. Facial recognition had placed Caffrey coming into JFK several weeks ago. Since that time, he had quietly faded into New York's backdrops of skyscrapers and brownstones, and street cams hadn't picked up even a hint of his presence. Peter didn't want to wait for the other shoe to drop. He wanted to be the conductor of this orchestra and move the scenario along. So, with El's help, he had kept a sharp eye out for anything on the cultural horizon that might tempt Caffrey to come out of hiding.

Serendipitously, El pointed out a small notice in the _'New York Times'_ about an antiquities exchange between the Smithsonian and the Hermitage museums that was scheduled for the next month. The blurb wasn't afforded a lot of space, most likely because the event would be taking place in Washington DC, almost two hundred miles away from New York.

"Do you think that something like this may spark Neal Caffrey's interest and tempt him to get crackin' in another city?" she asked her husband. "These Fabergé eggs are elegantly beautiful and priceless, as well as uniquely one of a kind. So, if I were a cat burglar who liked shiny things, these little puppies would definitely be worth going to the trouble of taking a road trip."

"Maybe," Peter said thoughtfully. "However, we'd need to beef up the advertising so that it gets noticed. I'll run my theory past Hughes, and if the boss man gets on board with the idea, we may have an actual plan to formulate."

Peter's supervisor was skeptical at first, especially about Peter's idea to bolster the amount of publicity. Advertising was expensive, and this all could be for nothing.

"Are you sure this is something that would be of interest to Caffrey?" Hughes asked with eyebrows raised. "We could be spinning our wheels and wasting our money on a hunch, Peter. And let us not ignore the fact that we'd be doing all of this out of our own jurisdiction. Are the fellows down in DC just going to fall in line and mount an undercover offensive on your farfetched gut instinct?"

"Actually, I may have a willing advocate down in Washington," Peter said slowly. "My mentor when I first graduated Quantico was Philip Kramer, and the nation's capital is now his bailiwick. I can give him a call and run this by him for his opinion. If he's willing to cooperate, Reese, do I have the okay to move forward."

Hughes let out a gusty sigh. "It's your funeral, Peter. Don't expect me to send flowers if it all goes to hell in a handbasket!"

~~~~~~~~~~

"Petey!" Philip Kramer enthused fondly when he took the call from his old protégé in New York. "It's been a long time, but I've been following your career. I can't help feeling a bit proud that I was the one to launch you on that meteoric path to glory. Yes, Sir, you were my prize pupil—a real archeologist who kept digging and digging until he found the clues to solve the case.

"Phil, I'm just part of a very good team," Peter said modestly.

"Sure, sure," Kramer agreed, "but a team is only as good as its team leader."

"Exactly!" Peter agreed, "so that's why I'm calling one of the best team leaders I know for his expert opinion on something."

That flattery was enough to get Kramer's attention and he listened as Peter laid out his plan.

"You're that sure that your boy will be tempted?" he asked the logical question.

"Caffrey's been quiescent for a while, Phil, after a whirlwind odyssey of heists through the capitals of Europe. We know he's back home in the States, and my gut tells me he won't sit still for long. I'm just trying to attract and direct his attention where I want him to hit next." Peter explained.

"And you want my support because you're herding him in my direction," Kramer summed it up.

"Yeah, I do."

"Well, you have it, Petey," Philip Kramer declared after a quiet interlude of introspection. "Let's do this! I'll get my guys here in DC to provide some of the seed money to hype up the marketing of the event, and you get that cantankerous old war horse, Hughes, to pony up a matching amount. We'll make this Fabergé Egg thing the talk of the East Coast. We'll get the Smithsonian to restrict the number of patrons into the exhibit. Only those holding a reserved ticket with a pre-ordained time will be allowed in. That will heighten the exclusivity and entice people to come so that they can claim bragging rights. Caffrey will have to make an appearance just to preserve his image."


	5. Chapter 5

It goes without saying that the FBI had better things to do than have a team stake out the Smithsonian museum every night for two solid weeks. They were smarter than that, most likely because they were also quite fortunate to have a political advantage. Phil Kramer had put a bug in the right ear, and suddenly the Department of Homeland Security joined their cause.

It seems as if every technological thing these days has an embedded chip of some sort—passports, phones, credit cards, yada, yada, yada. There are also drones in the sky and cameras on buildings, street corners, and every means of egress from a city. Thus, Big Brother can track a person in a myriad of ways by utilizing their intrusive little toys. The next to last day before the Fabergé exhibit was scheduled to depart the Washington museum's premises, CCTV froze an image of Neal Caffrey boarding an Amtrak train in New York bound for Union Station in the District of Columbia. The game was on!

That night, an anxious and fidgety Peter Burke hunkered down in a surveillance van with his previous mentor. A SWAT team with snipers was on standby, although Peter had argued that such an extreme measure wasn't necessary.

"He's a white-collar criminal, Phil. He's never armed with anything more than his charm. We don't need all that firepower."

"You can never tell what a snake will do when they're cornered, Petey," Kramer warned. "This isn't my first rodeo, and I like to come prepared for anything that goes sideways in my town."

True to his word, Kramer had pulled out all the stops. Besides the awaiting SWAT team of commandos, local Metro police were in play. They would seal off the streets leading to Constitution Avenue on Kramer's cue. The Park Service would also divert foot traffic from the National Mall on the other side of the massive building, and a police helicopter was hovering just out of sight.

The DC Metro Power Company had their marching orders, too. The FBI knew from previous instances that Caffrey liked to cause a temporary disruption in the electrical grid of his target location. The utility company was to immediately inform Kramer of any blip on the radar. Leaving nothing to chance, Kramer and his cohorts had also instituted a backup failsafe around the Fabergé Eggs. They were being prudent because they wanted to avoid an international incident at all costs.

Ever since the museum had closed its doors for the night, Kramer's team had been constantly monitoring the actual building with thermal imaging equipment to detect a human body within the walls. Yep, all the bells and whistles were in play to catch one very clever potential thief.

At ten minutes past two in the morning, Kramer got a heads up from the power company. It wasn't long after that when a monitoring agent reported the presence of a heat signature on the third floor of the Smithsonian Museum. Like watching an old, first-generation video game on a television screen, Peter saw an anonymous red-glowing stick figure move clandestinely through each floor of the building. The plan was to wait for Caffrey to do his thing and attempt his getaway. The FBI needed to arrest him with the pilfered evidence in his hot little hand.

~~~~~~~~~~

It wasn't difficult for Neal to scale the three-story building with cat-like agility. He left his grappling hook and harness on the roof and located the right ventilation shaft. A silent vibration of the phone in his pocket told him that Mozzie had proficiently tackled his end, and that the main power had been cut as well as the auxiliary back-up generator. Now it was time to go to work.

Neal carefully slithered down the study nylon rope and dropped soundlessly to the floor on the third level. He had on night goggles, so he made a quick run down the stairs to the first floor in search of those Fiorentino medals. After locating them exactly where Mozzie said they would be, the perfectionist in him gave them a contemptuous sneer. They certainly were a far cry from the beguiling and sophisticated work of the Renaissance Age. Neal just couldn't begin to fathom why the little bald man even wanted them.

It was at that point that Neal made an executive decision. He'd swap out the ugly coins with the chocolate confection just for shits and giggles, but he wasn't going to be lugging the real deal home with him. He'd stash them far back in a corner of one of the storage rooms on the third floor on his way out. In the meantime, he placed the bogus substitutions in their place surrounded by a little cheering section of smiling emoji faces. That little peanut gallery should draw some attention later in the morning when the museum opened for visitors.

Finally, it was time for the main event. Neal entered the second-floor room adjacent to the one containing the Hope Diamond, and found the targets of this mission prominently displayed in the center of the space under a huge dome of glass. Because the illuminating spotlights had lost power, initially Neal could only make out small ovoid shapes mounted on little pedestals.

Neal couldn't help himself—he pulled off his goggles and turned on a small penlight to see the objects d'art in all their glory. He wasn't disappointed. The creations were a magnificent spectacle to behold. The bold jewel-tone enamels used by the talented master artisan Carl Fabergé seemed to shimmer as did the meticulously embedded gems on the surface of shells the size of ostrich or goose eggs. Some were emblazoned with the Czar's royal crest, but most were intricately adorned with tiny flowers amidst a mesh of gold netting. Still other masterpieces were splayed open to reveal surprises that lay within their depths. Tiny concealed hinges gave way to even more mesmerizing miniature creations. Now, this was art at its zenith, and Neal would be hard pressed to choose just one as his prize.

When Neal lowered his night goggles once more, he immediately knew that something was definitely off-kilter. All power to the display should have been disabled. Mozzie never made egregious errors of that nature. Be that as it may, there was no mistaking the oscillating waves of laser beams sinuously undulating within the confines of the glass dome. Neal reckoned they were being fed by another, completely independent, power source. If he had been forewarned, there were tools that he could have used to circumvent this dilemma. However, tonight he was sleekly attired in body-hugging spandex so that he could just barely shimmy through the ductwork. The addition of a tool belt would have made that feat impossible.

Neal knew that it was time to abort and get out of Dodge because, with a foreboding sixth sense, the hairs on the back of his neck had begun to prickle. Mozzie had a name for this. He called it the "heebie-jeebies." Neal just called it a psychic phenomenon heralding a crisis.

Trying not to panic, Neal returned to the third floor and tossed Fiorentino's atrocities into a toilet holding tank in a small nearby bathroom. Now empty-handed, he quickly climbed the nylon rope and pulled it up behind him. Carefully moving away from the ventilation access, he stood up slowly. That's when all hell broke loose. A black helicopter was suddenly hovering nearby, and it hit him with a blinding light like a tractor beam from the Starship Enterprise. For just a second, he froze—the proverbial deer in the headlights. Then, he heard a strident voice delivered via bullhorn begin demanding that he raise his hands and drop to his knees. Reflexively, he glanced down to street level where additional klieg lights had suddenly winked on. Neal couldn't help the ironic rueful laugh that escaped his lips. Peter Burke—in the flesh—was standing, bold as brass, on a street in Washington DC. 

"Touché, mien Kommandant," Neal thought to himself. "I guess I should feel honored that you went to all this trouble for little old me."

However, Burke hadn't been playing by the rules, and Neal needed to make him aware of that fact. Unfortunately, before he ever got the chance to do so, a fusillade of bullets took the young thief down.


	6. Chapter 6

Agent Peter Burke couldn't believe this was happening! It was all going according to plan until it wasn't. Thanks to the excessive illumination, he was able to make out Neal Caffrey's features as he rose up on that rooftop. If what happened later wasn't so tragic, he might have laughed at his initial perusal of his quarry. For just a second, Caffrey resembled a comic strip character drawn with a bubble over his head peppered with question marks. Then, unbelievably, the kid quirked a sardonic smile when he spotted Peter down below. However, his next action may very well have brought about his death.

Everything seemed to happen simultaneously. Instead of raising his arms, Caffrey began to slide his hand into his jacket prompting Peter to scream out an anguished "NEAL, NO!" That outburst caused Caffrey to flinch and turn slightly in the direction of Peter's voice. A nanosecond later, edgy, adrenalin-fueled SWAT members opened fire and Caffrey disappeared from view.

Despite Kramer's restraining arm, Peter flew towards the side of the building where a hook and ladder truck had miraculously rolled in from a side street. Kramer had left nothing to chance, and, for once, Peter was appreciative of his thoroughness. The frantic man felt his cell phone begin to vibrate in his pocket, but ignored it as he pushed men in black body armor out of his way in an attempt to be the first to scale the rungs of the ladder toward Caffrey. He could hear some colorful swearing behind him, but he didn't care, as long as it was behind him. He was panting when he heaved himself over the ledge onto the tar and gravel flat roof.

He immediately spotted Caffrey. The brazen young thief was lying on his back with both of his arms flung wide. Peter heard pitiful moaning and dropped down by the fallen man's side. He saw the gush of glistening blood that looked black in the moonlight, and he felt a wave of fearful nausea when he saw that it appeared to be covering Caffrey's entire chest. The young man's jacket had fallen open, and it was quite evident that he had no concealed weapon on his person. The only thing in his hand was a cellphone. Caffrey's finger was still depressing a button on the keypad.

"Caffrey, you're an idiot," Peter swore as his bare hands frantically mopped at the blood that was still warm. 

The young man's only response, forced out between clenched teeth, was a slurred, "Ya weren't playing by the rules tonight, Agent Burke."

Then his eyes slid shut and he went silent as his head lolled listlessly to the side.

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter worriedly accompanied an unconscious, profusely bleeding patient in a wailing ambulance that sped through the night. At the doors of the nearby hospital trauma bay, assessing physicians gave Peter a concerned sidelong glance and asked if he had been wounded as well. The FBI agent certainly had enough of Caffrey's blood on him to cause the questioning eyebrows. Peter managed to locate a bathroom where he tried to scrub away the vestiges of Caffrey's life force. Eventually, he found a hard-plastic chair at the rear of the packed waiting room and tried to make sense of tonight's events and their terrible outcome. It was not supposed to go like this, damn it!

Peter knew that Kramer would eventually find him after he had overseen the processing of the crime scene. The trouble was, it hardly qualified as a "crime scene" since nothing appeared to have been stolen. Hospital personnel had brought Caffrey's personal effects to him in a plastic bag secured with a cord drawstring, and there were no treasures hidden within its depths. In fact, there wasn't much of anything—just a pair of goggles, a small penlight, thin black latex gloves, and a cellphone with a blood-smeared #3. Caffrey's finger had been pushing that button when he was cut down. Had he been trying to warn an accomplice?

Out of professional curiosity, Peter again depressed that same button. A few seconds later, the FBI agent startled as his own phone started vibrating in his pocket. Now Peter realized that Caffrey had been trying to reach him at that fragile moment on the rooftop. The thought was sobering as well as troubling. What had a cornered Neal wanted to say at that crucial juncture besides telling Peter that he hadn't been playing by the rules?  Maybe, Peter would never know.

Eventually, Peter was made aware that Caffrey was being wheeled to the operating room so that a piece of lead could be extracted from his shoulder under general anesthesia. Miraculously, that was the only gunshot wound that Neal had sustained. Apparently, his jerky pirouette when he heard Peter's warning had caused other fatal projectiles to go wide and avoid piercing his body.

Peter waited patiently through the surgery. He then waited through the post-op period spent in the recovery room, and the transfer to the surgical ICU. Finally, he was able to stand in the same space and glare at a pale young man just marginally less white than the sheets on his bed. Peter willed the patient to open his eyes, but it came as no surprise when the contrary pain-in-the-ass thief failed to comply.

Peter noticed Phil Kramer in his peripheral vision pacing outside the small cubicle. He quickly stepped outside and accompanied the older man to a quiet outlying alcove reserved for ICU patient families.

"You look like hell, Petey," were Kramer's first assessing words. "Your shirt and jacket are caked with dried blood."

When Peter, like Neal, failed to respond, Kramer continued the dialogue.

"Well, I've got to say that this was one big clusterfuck. My guys are still going over the scene along with the curators and they can't find a damn thing missing except for some stupid little antique coins. That brazen twerp switched them out for chocolate foil-wrapped candy wafers. We haven't found the real ones yet, but I guess we will eventually."

Peter actually smiled at that idiotic bit of news as Kramer sighed and continued. "This is going to play like a bad melodrama with the media—police brutality, cutting down an unarmed man who almost died on our watch, and so on and so on. We can't even charge him with theft because, apparently, he didn't steal anything except for those coins that we can't find."

"Maybe we should have his stomach x-rayed to see if he swallowed the evidence," Peter murmured facetiously. "That might save our asses."

Kramer didn't think that was a bit humorous and glared at Peter. "The way it's looking, we've expended all this money and manpower to catch a notorious thief, and the only things we can charge him with are possible breaking and entering or criminal trespass. That's not very gratifying, especially when there are those above me at the Bureau that will want to know how this went down in flames."

"You're right, Phil," Peter said quietly. "It was a hell of a night with horrible ramifications. If Caffrey were awake, I'd think he'd agree. But for the record, I don't think that he deserved what happened to him on that rooftop, and he paid a terrible price."

"Now, don't go all soft and maudlin on me, Petey. He's the criminal in all of this, not us. If you can't interrogate him tonight, make sure to apply the handcuffs and notify Metro that he needs a keeper. I'll touch base with you tomorrow after I get my ass handed to me by the Bureau chief."

After Kramer departed, Peter returned to Neal's room. The suspected thief looked peaceful and was breathing easily, so Peter sat down in a chair next to him. He watched the steady little spikes of Neal's heart rhythm parade across an LCD monitor, and he allowed the hypnotic soft beeping to lull him into a sense of tranquility. Caffrey was going to live to see another day, and, incongruously, that made Peter happy. The FBI agent began to wonder when this had all become so personal, and how he had allowed himself to be drawn into Caffrey's magnetic orbit. Maybe, when he and the infuriating young man had a frank discussion, the dichotomy could be put to rest and Peter could return to the steadiness of being the staunch, by-the-book Federal agent that he once was. And, just maybe, he could put some other random issues to rest as well.


	7. Chapter 7

"Peter, are you really sure that you're okay?" El asked for perhaps the fifth or sixth time during their morning phone conversation. "I can hop on a train and be there for you in a matter of hours."

"El, I'm fine," Peter reassured his wife yet again. "I've got to help Phil wrap up this fiasco. There's not only a matter of documenting everything that we did last night, but I've still got to interrogate Caffrey in the ICU. I'm certainly not looking forward to that because it will entail even more paperwork," Peter confessed.

"Do you really think that he's going to be forthcoming with you, Peter? I mean, would he be foolish enough to implicate himself and risk prison?" El said logically.

"Honestly, Hon, I don't know what he's going to say or do, but he did make it plain to his guard that he would only talk to me. For all I know, he'll have a league of lawyers cluttering up his hospital room. It's certainly not outside the realm of possibility that he'll sue the FBI for being overzealous and almost killing him."

Elizabeth sighed. "I know this isn't what you want to hear, Peter, but I'm going to say it anyway. I feel so sorry for that beautiful and troubled young man who craves attention so badly that he'll risk his life to get it. Right now, he seems to want your attention, so be kind to him, Peter. Try to turn him around before the next lark proves fatal. That would be such a waste."

Peter sighed. "Yeah, the kid has a brilliant mind and impressive artistic talent that he could channel in another direction. It _would_ be a waste of those gifts if he squandered the opportunity—the legal opportunity—to utilize them."

Elizabeth thought that many other different opportunities would be wasted if Neal Caffrey wound up in prison, but she didn't say that to her husband. He was already confused enough about certain things.

~~~~~~~~~~

"You came," Neal murmured softly when Peter replaced the Metro cop in Neal's room.

"Yep, I'm here," Peter said flippantly. "You beckoned, so, like magic, I appear on your doorstep. Does that mean that you're ready to confess your intent to steal a Fabergé Egg from the museum last night?"

"Uh, no—in fact that's a very firm 'No' to that question," Neal said quickly.

"Okay, hotshot, then I have a question," Peter countered. "You were trying to call me last night. Of course, that makes me wonder how you managed to acquire my personal number, but we can hold off on that puzzle for another time. What I really want to know is what you meant when you said that I wasn't 'playing by the rules.' How does that even compute, Caffrey? I mean I'm a cop and you’re a criminal. If we're playing a game, the rules are pretty much etched in stone. You commit a crime and I try to stop you. If I can't, then the next best thing is catching you and making sure that you are punished for your misdeeds. Have I missed anything?"

"Wow, you are such a buzzkill, Peter—can I call you Peter?" Neal asked cheekily.

"No!" Peter growled. "It's Agent Burke to you!"

"Have it your way," Neal mumbled, "but you have to admit that we have sort of a personal relationship."

"How do you figure that?" Peter had almost been afraid to ask that question.

Neal smiled. "Well, we're both brilliant, of course, so the playing field on the chessboard is even. We study each other like formidable adversaries and try to think a half-dozen steps ahead. We sometimes utilize convoluted strategies to psych the other out in our game of one-upmanship. However, Agent Burke, last night you were definitely not playing by the rules."

"Oh, do tell!" Peter urged.

"Well, I see our continuing battle as one of brain power rather than brawn," Neal began as he cocked his head and favored Peter with his aquamarine stare. "I think that's why I'm attracted to you because there aren't many people who can keep up with me and that's intriguing. However, I'll be the first to admit that you outfoxed me this time, so hats off to your cleverness. I'm man enough to concede that I was bested in the contest, but it should have ended quite differently—more gentleman-like and civilized. I certainly wouldn't have run when I realized that it was checkmate and you had tipped my king. That would have been childish and unworthy behavior.

Last night, you didn't need all the reinforcements and the trigger-happy storm troopers. When we finished our game, it should have been just the two of us, coming face to face. We'd shake hands and I would acknowledge your intellectual superiority, and then I'd allow you to take me into custody without any fuss. However—about last night—I guess that you could say that I was a bit disappointed because I expected more of you. I wanted to hold you to a higher standard."

Peter opened his mouth to say something, but then didn't know exactly how to respond. This was sure some weird shit coming out of Caffrey's mouth. Was the little punk suddenly going to break out in belly laughs any second and proclaim, "Had you going there for a second, didn't I?"

"Neal," Peter tried again after the uncomfortable silence lengthened, "this isn't a game. This is your life that we're talking about here. Does your life have so little value that you're willing to risk it for pricey trinkets and shiny baubles? You have to see that you're better than that. I'm sure that you have managed to amass a cache somewhere brimming over with wealth, but you can't spend a dime if you're dead."

Suddenly, the serious young man looked sad after listening to Peter pontificate. The emotionally struggling FBI agent wondered if he had committed yet another faux pas in the vast cosmos of Neal Caffrey's strange world.

"What?" he finally asked.

"You really don't get it do you, Agent Burke. It's not about acquiring _things_."

"Then what is it about, Neal? Tell me. Use little words if you have to so I'll understand." Peter queried.

Neal sighed. "It's about the challenge—the pushing of constraining boundaries to see just how far you can soar. Think of a distance runner who is always striving to go a little farther, run a little faster to beat his best time. Or a pole vaulter who wants to add that extra inch to clear the bar. When you manage to do it, it's a thrill—a high greater than even the best drugs can give you."

Peter suddenly felt a sort of compassion overwhelm his heart. "What happened to you along the way, Neal, that you constantly think that you have to prove yourself? Who undermined your self-esteem so badly that you feel compelled to keep defining your worth?"

"Ah, so now you're playing shrink, Agent Burke? I'll have to warn you that it's a lost cause to try and figure me out. If you got into my head, you'd just get lost in the maze. Go home to your beautiful wife and let her tell you what an excellent job you did last night. If she tells you that often enough, maybe you'll begin to believe it and stop seeking other answers. But, just so you know, I don't consider our game to be over. You committed a foul, so it's far from over. There are more tangos on our dance cards."

Peter cut his eyes sharply at Neal. "Yeah, the dancers," Neal whispered softly, "Surely you realize that they represent the two of us. Our relationship is like a dance—one of us is leading and the other following."

"Which one am I in that scenario, Neal?" Peter asked with trepidation.

The young con man smiled again. "I guess you'll have to figure that out for yourself, _Peter_. If you have trouble, maybe your wife can help you with that 'cause women are usually more in touch with their feelings. They don't let preconceived notions cloud their vision, and they see right to the heart of the matter."


	8. Chapter 8

One week later, Neal was arraigned in the United States District Court on Constitution Avenue. Peter had made the trip down from New York for the proceedings and was seated beside Phil Kramer when Caffrey was brought before the magistrate with his left arm in a sling. His color had definitely improved since the last time Peter had seen him in an ICU bed, but he still looked frail and too thin in a pair of worn jeans and a t-shirt. Those casual trappings and his tussled mop of dark curls falling into his eyes made him look like a teenager. Peter mentally shook his head. Neal was going for the wide-eyed innocent look today, and he was actually pulling it off. He appeared to be as sinister and dangerous as a beagle puppy.

Peter noted that Caffrey had foregone the court appointed attorney and opted to have his own counsel represent him. Now, that little guy was a strange character, to put it mildly. The bald, pint-sized member of the bar had on Ben Franklin spectacles, a baggy seersucker suit, a yellow polka dot bow tie, and black and white checkered Vans on his feet. After the charges of breaking and entering and attempted grand larceny were read by the bailiff, he pronounced that his client was entering a plea of "not guilty." Then he peered myopically at the presiding judge and began his spiel.

"Your Honor," he said deferentially, "perhaps you will see this as a colossal waste of the court's valuable time after I explain my client's behavior. I think, in your intimate wisdom, Sir, you will deem these ludicrous charges to be overblown and unsubstantiated and, thus, do not warrant indicting Mr. Caffrey and holding him over for trial."

"Continue..." the magistrate said from the bench.

"Thank you, Your Honor," the defense lawyer replied gratefully as he got up a full head of steam.

"My client is young, impetuous, and stupid," Mozzie began as he saw Neal wince out of the corner of his eye after the word “stupid.”

"Unfortunately, those are not an uncommon traits in the youth of today who are of the belief that they are invincible. They have not lived long enough to acquire the cautionary lessons that one learns as one travels through the perils of life. No, Your Honor, instead of being cautious, they seek out danger. Of course, that is a difficult concept for persons like you and me to understand. We older men of the world know the pitfalls surrounding such behavior, and we have come to value and espouse good sense and logic. But what can you do?" Mozzie said with a shrug of his shoulders. "These young adolescents have to learn the hard way."

The judge sighed. "Can we get to the heart of the matter, please? The court's time _is_ valuable just as you mentioned earlier."

"Of course, Your Honor, I would be happy to do so," Mozzie quickly agreed.

"There is a current phenomenon afoot in the world. It's called 'buildering.' It's also known as edificeering, urban climbing, structuring, and stegophily. To put it succinctly, it describes the act of climbing on the outside of buildings and other artificial structures, and it is usually undertaken at night to make it a bit more dangerous for the thrill-seekers. Of course, this ridiculous 'hobby' is illegal, but the only criminal intent on the part of the silly people who engage in the act is being able to say that they accomplished the daring deed.

Unfortunately, this is not an entirely new concept. I researched its origins and have found that it was first actually documented in 1895 by Geoffrey Winthrop Young. He recorded the feats of Cambridge University students in England who had been scrambling up the university architecture for years.

In 1905, Harry H. Gardiner successfully climbed over seven hundred buildings in Europe and North America in street clothes with no special equipment. There have been many 'builderers' over the years who have become famous. Fascinated followers dubbed them with names like 'The Human Fly' and 'Spider Dan,' just to name a few. They've scaled iconic structures in modern times, such as the Eiffel Tower, the Empire State Building, the Sears Tower, and the Sydney Opera House.

"Your Honor, I don't pretend to understand it, but, unfortunately, it does happen quite frequently. Neal, my young and impetuous client, has just taken up this perilous passion. That is why the authorities found him on the rooftop of the Smithsonian's Museum of Natural History. He did not enter that building, Judge, he merely scaled it."

"Your Honor!" the federal prosecutor suddenly objected as he quickly rose to his feet. "The FBI has copies of thermal images to prove that Neal Caffrey didn't just scale that building. He climbed down into it. Although the authorities aren't sure how he managed to do it, he most certainly _was_ in that museum going from floor to floor. That's 'breaking and entering' in every sense of the word."

Mozzie widened his eyes and turned his palms up in exasperation. "Is learned counsel trying to slip a fast one by the court? If, indeed, there are some pretty little colors on a monitor, does he really expect us to believe that they represent a human being? My cable company manages to scramble the pixels on my television from time to time so that I see ghost images. Must we blithely conclude that a technical aberration coming from a machine was an actual human being, and that it was my client, no less? Your Honor, that's a stretch. We're not talking about proven scientific evidence here like DNA or fingerprints."

The judge leveled his eyes at the federal prosecutor. "Are you saying that you have no evidence of a break-in—no hole in the roof or missing glass panes from the dome?"

"Well, not yet, Your Honor. The authorities are still trying to work out the logistics. However, the defendant was there for a malicious purpose. He intended to steal one of the Fabergé Eggs that were on display on the second floor after he interrupted the power source to the alarm system."

"Can you prove that my client fiddled with any alarm system?" Mozzie asked. "I believe that is all conjecture on your part to enhance the narrative. To my knowledge, not one of those famous Fabergé Eggs was stolen. You also cannot prove that Neal Caffrey took anything from that museum because my sources tell me that neither the curators nor the Federal authorities can find anything missing."

"That's not true, Your Honor!" the prosecutor was going for outraged as he saw his case slipping away. "There are some very valuable gold medals that are missing. The defendant thought he was being cute when he replaced them with coins made of chocolate. Neither the Smithsonian nor the FBI are amused."

Mozzie favored the prosecutor with a smug smile. "Were those missing medals found on my client's person?"

"No, they weren't," was the grudging answer. "He's probably hidden them somewhere on the premises with the intent to retrieve them later during a return visit."

"Again—more of the same outlandish conjecture," Mozzie snorted. "Coins made of chocolate sound more like a childish prank to me perhaps perpetrated by the proverbial clown in the office. Have the authorities questioned all the staff? Have any of them got an ax to grind? Maybe someone didn't get an expected raise or was passed over for promotion. The possibilities are endless. How about the docents—were they interviewed, as well as any visiting historians or lecturers, and the cleaning crew? I can keep going and going."

The judge had heard enough and held up his hand. "Can we wrap this up counselors? Does the prosecution have any solid evidence to offer other than the fact that the defendant climbed onto the roof of the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History?"

"Well, no, Your Honor, not at this time, but the investigation is on-going."

The judge looked stern. "Then I'm going to allow the client to be charged only with unlawful trespass. However, given that this young offender was grievously assaulted by the Federal authorities and could have forfeited his life at their hands, I am not going to levy any kind of penalty against him. He has suffered enough. This case is closed and will not proceed toward indictment." A banging gavel sealed the deal.

Peter heard Kramer snort in derision. "That little son of a bitch is going to walk away this time, but this is far from the end. I'm going to be taking a special interest in Mr. Neal Caffrey from now on. Whether he's in my town of any other, he's going to feel me breathing down his neck. Nobody makes a fool out of Phil Kramer—nobody!" he vowed as he stormed out of the courtroom.

When Neal and his lawyer came abreast of a now solitary Peter, Neal stopped and offered a rueful little smile as Mozzie left him behind and continued towards the exit.

"Better luck next time, Agent Burke."

"It's unbecoming to gloat, Neal," Peter retorted.

"I'm not gloating. However, I will admit that I am pleased with the outcome because now we can start dancing again." Neal said genially.

"Why me, Neal? Out of all the Federal agents pursuing you, why have you glommed onto me?"

Neal cocked his head in that charming way that he managed to pull off time and again. "I already told you. You're special, Peter, at least special to me—a very attractive and exhilarating challenge."

"Is that challenge as exhilarating as 'buildering,' Neal?" Peter asked as he fought to keep a straight face.

Neal threw his head back and laughed. "That was a pretty good tale, wasn't it! Even I was entertained."

Peter looked serious once more. "What isn't funny is the fact that you've made a very determined and dangerous enemy today."

"You?" Neal asked incredulously. "Surely you're not referring to yourself. You know, deep down, that you love me even if you won't say it out loud."

"Philip Kramer can be like a dog with a bone, Neal. He's going to be all over you like white on rice. Keep your head down and take up a new 'hobby' before your current one lands you in prison for a very long time."

Neal leveled that extremely disconcerting blue-eyed stare at Peter. It caused some suspicious swirling in Peter's nether regions that he quickly fought to tamp down.

"But he's not you, Peter. There isn't another person like _you_. You're the one I want to dance with through life."

"Stop right now, Caffrey!" Peter said as he held up his hands. "Stop all this innuendo that reeks of sexual overtones. I'm a happily married man and I'm not interested. Got it?"

"You're deluding yourself, Peter. I know you're attracted to me and my mystique. I'm counting on it. Maybe one day you'll accept the reality and stop denying the obvious."

"My wife may have something to say about that!" Peter said forcefully.

"I'm sure that she will. Why don't you ask her? Maybe she'll surprise you, and everybody likes a surprise now and again."

After Neal spoke those soft words, he smiled and walked out the door.


	9. Chapter 9

Of course, a dependable and conscientious husband did as Neal suggested and related exactly what transpired in a Washington DC courtroom. He quoted Neal's words, almost verbatim, to his wife and then shook his head in disgust.

"There he was El, looking like a poor little bird with a broken wing propositioning me. Can you believe the audacity of it all?"

Elizabeth smiled her Cheshire cat smile and looked at her husband fondly. "Why is it so hard to believe, Peter? You're a handsome specimen of male virility, and an adoring young man has feelings for you. He was just trustingly honest enough to say them out loud."

Peter snorted. "Honest is not a word that would ever describe Neal Caffrey. He always has an agenda and an ulterior motive for the things that he does."

"Maybe this may be an exception to his rule," El suggested.

"Well, this whole seduction thing is ridiculous. I don't return the sentiment. I'm not attracted to him in any sexual way. I'm a complete heterosexual, I love you, and you're everything that I desire in life," Peter replied with a bit of force behind his words.

"Peter," El began softly, "that's a blanket statement. Is anyone always totally one way or the other?"

Peter was aghast. "El, can you seriously doubt that I love you and only you?"

"Of course not, Sweetheart. I'd never question your love. But I think that you're trying to equate concepts from dissimilar realms. Undying love and an exciting, erotic romp under the sheets are two completely different things."

Peter had to dig deep to find the right words for a conversation that had taken a very strange turn.

"El, I have never considered having sex with a man!"

"Really?" Elizabeth asked innocently with her head cocked to the side mimicking the exact same gesture that Neal had employed. El's clear blue eyes, so like Neal's, were almost Peter's undoing.

"Never!" Peter said vehemently, although his conscience poked him a bit.

"I'm just saying, it's food for thought, Peter. Don't discount the possibility out of hand."

Suddenly, Peter was unsure of his footing. "El, have you ever, you know, thought about sex with a woman? You can tell me if you have because I'll be able to handle it."

"Well, no," Elizabeth admitted, "but I did amass a collection of some male on male DVDs when I was in college. They were really _hot_ and a complete turn on for me. I still have them somewhere up in the attic and I can find them for you if you want to watch."

"No!" Peter immediately responded. "Thank you for the offer, but no. El, this is a side of you that I never suspected."

"Aw, Hon, you've put me high up on a pedestal ever since we met. Does it freak you out when I slide off from time to time?"

"I'm not freaking out," Peter answered. "But experimenting with a bit of strange on my part seems like a betrayal to you."

"You just might like 'a bit of strange,' Peter. Don't close yourself off to the possibility because of me. I'm down with it if it's something that you'd like to try. I know that, in the end, I own your love. I'll never have doubts about that. However, please be honest, Hon. You know that you must have entertained the idea about Neal Caffrey at some point. Think about what you suddenly wanted in bed after you started chasing him," Elizabeth ended smugly as if she had proven her point.

Peter felt a blush start at his chest and creep slowly upward until it reached his face.

"Don't be embarrassed, Hon. I thought it was endearing how you hemmed and hawed and stuttered when you asked if you could perform anal sex on me. Saying that you were really randy, and you didn't want to inconvenience me because I was menstruating was beyond adorable."

Peter was suddenly mortified because his wife had read him like an open book. While spooning behind her soft lushness, he _had_ fantasized about another body, lean and hard with sharp angles. He almost heard Neal's sensual moans and felt him writhe beneath the dominant weight holding him pinned down on the mattress. He saw the long slender fingers of an artist grip the sheets as Peter pounded into him mercilessly from behind. He felt the salty sweat cause their slick bodies to side back and forth in a primal rhythm—skin on naked skin. When Peter finally reached his crescendo and spilled into that dark, forbidden crevice, it was Neal's cleft that was oozing semen as Peter pulled his cock from the tight, pulsating ring of muscle. Thinking about it now was visceral. His psyche was betraying him and playing havoc with his body. Peter could fight it all he wanted, but he was now waging a battle on two fronts. It was almost a foregone conclusion that eventually, he was going down for the count.

~~~~~~~~~~

Of course, to make matters even worse for poor Peter, little pen and ink sketches of dancers arrived in his mailbox with alarming frequency. The first depicted a handsome dark-haired man in a formal black suit entangled with a young woman in a slinky black dress. The _really_ long slits up the sides of that garment revealed tantalizing white skin. The two were pressed chest to chest with the woman's leg wrapped sinuously around her partner's thigh as she gazed at him with smoldering eyes.

"That looks like the Argentina Tango," El declared. "Aw, Peter, Neal's flirting with you."

Peter merely grunted and added it to his Caffrey box, a collection of unique odds and ends that probably would lead nowhere. El just quirked an eyebrow.

The next set of dancers that arrived a few weeks later were engaged in something even more erotic. The man was again attired in black, but this time it was a pair of tight pants and a buttoned vest. His crisp white shirt sleeves were rolled up to expose strong sinewy arms. He needed that strength because he was supporting his partner, also in a clingy black dress, as she arched her back at a ridiculously severe angle while sliding a long leg bare between the man's open thighs.

"The Bolero, for sure," El interpreted.

El was practically drooling when she recognized the next one. "It's the Lambada, Peter, the most sensuous and titillating dance on the planet. It started out in Brazil during Carnival but quickly spread to Latin America and the Caribbean countries. It sort of combines aspects of salsa and the merengue, and it's almost as if the partners are having sex while on the dance floor."

Peter agreed it looked pretty hot, at least in the drawing. The bare-chested male appeared to have just twirled his female partner. Her extremely tiny skirt was flared revealing a lacy thong as she plastered her back against the man's front. The picture suggested exaggerated movement as if she were undulating her hips. The couple's arms were entwined, and the man had his head lowered against her very white neck.

The last pen and ink sketch was probably the most upsetting, at least for Peter. This time there were three people in the portrait. A tall, well-built man in tight jeans, a black wife beater shirt, and cowboy boots was holding onto the hands of two young women in camisoles and cut-off jeans that barely covered their ass cheeks. He was simultaneously twirling them with precision and they were smiling like contented cats who had licked up the cream.

"Three Person Country Swing," El said knowledgably. "Now I think Neal is flirting with both of us!"

El then turned the envelope over and looked at the postmark.

"Peter, these sketches have all been sent from Italy."

"Yeah. Caffrey's holed up in Ravello on the Amalfi Coast. Kramer's been keeping track of him and he keeps me in the loop," Peter answered.

"But you already knew that, didn't you, Peter," Elizabeth said wisely. "You've been keeping tabs on Neal, too."

"Maybe," Peter gave a noncommittal answer that said volumes.


	10. Chapter 10

Neal and Mozzie were hiding in plain sight. For the last several months, they had been living at the Palazzo Sasso, a 12th century Italian villa tucked away on the hilltop village of Ravello. It gave Neal a respite so that he could heal and regain his strength after almost dying from a gunshot wound. Well, maybe he hadn't been in danger of really dying, but it sure felt like that to a young man who hated guns. Neal now spent his days painting and sketching high above the tranquil Mediterranean that was ringed by quaint fishing villages. Mozzie was trying his hand at winemaking.

Being back in Europe was like coming home to Neal. He loved the ambiance, the flavor, and the pace of cities steeped in history. He tried to imagine the intrigues that had germinated on these foreign shores, the many daring dramas, and the tempestuous love stories that had played out on the stage of civilizations over the centuries. He was a romantic at heart and always would be. That's why the gossip that filtered back to him from old associates on this continent caused him to worry about a lost love.

He had heard that Kate and Matthew Keller were still together doing their thing, but Keller's "thing" had turned even more deadly. One source after another advised Neal that the madman was out of control, and had more notches on his belt than Billy the Kid. Nobody wanted to work with him or be anywhere in the vicinity that he inhabited. Keller was now a virtual pariah among the less than legitimate population of Europe and Asia. He had made some very vicious enemies that were out for payback, and Neal worried that Kate could become collateral damage.

"Neal, Kate made her choice and now she has to live with the consequences," Mozzie advised the troubled young man. "Stop having fantasies of rescuing a damsel in distress who will swoon in your protective embrace and see the error of her ways."

Neal looked down and whispered softly, "I know Kate's not coming back to me, Moz. She made it crystal clear that she doesn't want me. In fact, that's become the story of my life—nobody wants me."

Mozzie heaved a put-upon sigh. "Is this about that ridiculous crush that you have on 'The Suit?' Get over it, Neal, and stop thinking with your little head that's located south of your belt buckle. Some species are just not compatible and cannot mate. Reign in that crazy libido of yours and focus on somebody who's affections are attainable. You could have your pick of any woman or man if you put some effort into the project."

Neal rewarded his friend with a dour look. He really hated it when he was so transparent to Mozzie. It was extremely hard to let go of an obsession. It was like cutting off a part of your body and tossing it on the trash heap. If potential lovers kept turning him down, eventually he was going to fall apart and fade away.

~~~~~~~~~~

A few weeks later, the unthinkable occurred. Against all odds, Neal heard from Kate. The young woman seemed distressed, almost terrified. She told Neal that she had managed to get away from Matthew Keller because he had become abusive and she had begun to fear him. He had gone on a rampage that pissed off a lot of dangerous people, and she claimed that many of those unsavory factions were out for his scalp. Since he seemed to have evaporated into thin air, she became fair game.

Kate said that some really spiteful people had tracked her down and were holding her against her will. They thought that they could flush Keller out that way. But Kate knew in her heart that she was doomed because Keller really didn't give a damn about her. In a desperate attempt to bargain for her life, she had managed to broker a deal with her captors. That's why she was calling Neal. He was the only one who could help her out of this dilemma.

"What kind of deal, Kate? What do they want?" Neal whispered.

"The price for my freedom is a painting, Neal. It's a Raphael—'St. George and the Dragon.' That's what they want. I know that the earliest version is in the Louvre in Paris, but Raphael's later version hangs at the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC. My captors are willing to settle for that one."

Neal moaned. "Kate, I've got an FBI agent in that town who's just waiting to sink his teeth into my jugular. I don't know if I could get away with it. Ask your jailers if there's something else that I can get for them. How about money—I can pay a ransom."

Kate sighed. "I tried that tactic first thing. I even took them to the stash that you said was in San Diego. You lied to me, Neal. There was nothing there, and that made them even angrier. They thought that I was playing them—I guess just like you played me."

Kate had thrown down her trump card, and it had the desired effect. Waves of guilt washed over Neal. Maybe he had once loved Kate with all his heart, but he just couldn’t trust her completely. He had come up through the years via the school of hard knocks, and trust was a difficult concept for him to fully internalize. Now he wished that he had been a better, more truthful lover. However, somewhere, deep down, a little voice took exception to his logic.

Finally, Neal responded quietly, "I'll get the painting, Kate. Let me know how to reach you when I have it."

"I'll know when you've gotten it, Neal, because it will be big news in the papers. I'll call you then and tell you where to deliver it."

There was no poignant " _goodbye_ ," just a click signifying a disconnected call.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Don't be an idiot, Neal," Mozzie pleaded. "Please do _not_ do this."

"I have to, Mozzie. I can't just leave Kate twisting in the wind. You don't have to come with me back to the States if you don't want to. I get that you think I'm the biggest fool that ever walked this planet."

"No," Mozzie said miserably, "I'm the biggest fool on the planet for staying right there beside you when you go on this suicide mission. It will be like watching a train wreck—a horrible sight but you just can't tear your eyes away as you watch it happen."

"Very encouraging, Moz," Neal said cynically, "but thanks!"

“You’d do the same for me, mon frère,” Moz answered softly.

Neal’s face then took on a concerned expression. “We’ve been watched the whole time that we’ve been here,” he mused. “Do you have any connections who can help us slip the surveillance and disappear into the ether?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?” Mozzie snorted. “I have forged the odd tie with some important people—viscounts, Mafia dons, the occasional diplomat. I’ll just call in a few favors that will enable us to fold our tents and slink off into the desert with nobody the wiser.”

It wasn’t long before Mozzie managed to make good on his promise of a magician’s vanishing act. Neal and his loyal wingman clandestinely arrived in the United States and started their preparations.

~~~~~~~~~~

“He’s in the wind, Petey!” Philip Kramer roared into the phone. “The little bastard managed to disappear into thin air. The damn Italian Carabinieri waited almost two weeks before they got around to informing Interpol.”

Peter was taken aback by the ferocity of Kramer’s tone. His old mentor didn’t just harbor a grudge. It seemed like he sustained it on a steady diet of Wheaties.

“He’ll pop up at some point,” was all that Peter could think to say.

“Oh, I’m _sure_ that he will,” Kramer agreed, “while he’s pulling another heist right under our noses. I want that little fucker in the worst way, Petey!”

“Yeah, I get that, Phil, loud and clear. What can I do to help?”

Peter could hear Kramer draw a deep breath as if he were struggling to compose himself. Finally, in a less strident tone, he began to ramble on with his narrative.

“Even though Caffrey can be a regular globetrotter, he always does the homing pigeon thing between jobs. He seems to like New York City as a place to hang his hat. I’m betting he’s in your town now, Pete. You need to be hyper vigilant and batten down the hatches real tight. If you get even the hint of a whisper from your snitches on the street, let me know and I’ll be on the first train to the Big Apple. I’ve got a score to settle with him, and it ain’t gonna be pretty!”


	11. Chapter 11

Neal and Mozzie had been bivouacking at an Embassy Suites in McClean, Virginia. The area was a bedroom community of Washington DC. It was late afternoon, and Mozzie had numerous architectural renderings of the National Gallery of Art’s massive building spread out on an elongated folding table.

“I must say that I’m very impressed,” Mozzie stated emphatically. “This is a totally innovative concept created over a span of decades by two architects representing different eras. It shouldn’t work, but it does. The two distinct structures, simply designated as the East and the West buildings, comprise the entirety of the museum on Constitution Avenue. They form an elongated H, and are cleverly married to one another via an underground passage on 4th Street called ‘The Concourse.’ The whole thing is anchored in the center with a domed rotunda modeled on the interior of the Pantheon in Rome. There are also bright little atria-lit garden courts to break up the long main axis of the structure as well as a dedicated six-acre sculpture garden.

Now, for our caper—I’m of the mind that late at night you will gain access to that underground walkway through one of the glass panels from the street level above it. Once you’re inside, you’ll need to go into the West Building. That’s where there’s a permanent collection of Renaissance paintings that includes our Raphael. There’s also a nice piece by Botticelli that you may want to snag on your way out just so that we get something out of this asinine escapade.”

Neal had listened carefully and was now a bit less stressed. “I have to admit that I’m relieved that I won’t be on a rooftop in Washington again, and I won’t be shimmying through a rotunda dome. However, I do have a concern. I’m assuming you’re going to do your Thomas Edison thing and circumvent the alarm system. It’s kinda become our signature trademark, so that will immediately send up flares and Kramer will be all over my ass.”

Mozzie smiled wickedly. “Ah, but I have developed some new little gismos that will stymy that evil menace. I also went the extra mile and have formulated an adjunct plan that is sure to cause him a bit of grief. Maybe he’ll have a stroke and have to spend the rest of his days in a nursing home.”

“Do you wake up with nasty thoughts like that in your head, Moz, or do they just slowly evolve over the course of the day?” Neal asked cynically.

“I’m like an elephant, Neal. I never forget anything, especially a person who’s an asshole” Mozzie replied as he tapped his temple. “Now, let me first lay out the plan, and then I’ll beguile you with my new inventions.”

“I’m listening, Moz. Dazzle me with your brilliance!”

Mozzie had a pleased and proud look on his face as he started his explanation.

“This time, I do not intend to interrupt the power to the alarm system. You, mon frère, will proceed to do your thing with a diamond-tip saw and industrial suction cups to remove a pane of glass above the underground walkway. Easy-peasy and you are in. Of course, the silent alarm will immediately perceive that an intrusion has taken place, and the system will automatically dial out to the closest police precinct. That is where my magnificent mastery kicks in. I have made some technical adjustments so that the alerting call, as well as the follow-up call by the company representative, will come directly to yours truly—Sheriff Andy Taylor of the Metro Police. I will very professionally assure them that a squad car has been dispatched to the scene to investigate.”

Mozzie then walked over to the small closet in the room and pulled out a crisp blue uniform that displayed impressive insignias, bars, and clusters. That array certainly made it clear that whomever was wearing this apparel was one of Washington’s finest.

“I also have a squad car to complete the ensemble,” he explained. “I’ll be your wheelman, Neal, and when you get the goods and poke your head above ground, I’ll be there to nab you and whisk you away to the hoosegow.”

Neal cocked his head. “Isn’t there a height requirement for the police academy?”

Mozzie just gave him the stink eye. “Mock all you want, Neal. I’m immune to short stature jibes because I function on a higher plane. Now, pay attention and prepare to be awed because I’ve saved the best for last. Tomorrow night, you are going to wear these black coveralls and this watch cap,” Mozzie said as he dug more items from the closet.

Neal wrinkled his nose. “Not as fashionable as my cat burglar spandex.”

“Nope,” Mozzie agreed, “but what they lack in haute couture, they make up for with incredible functionality. When you push a button on the jump suit and activate a little button in the cap, a magnetic force field is created. I’ve tinkered with the concept and caused some distortion to scramble the vectors. The end result is our ace in the hole because it will make you unrecognizable on any cameras that you encounter on your route. All that the lenses will see is a white cloud-like haze as you move from room to room. I got that idea after Kramer’s little trick of using thermal imaging. This should really roast his nuts,” Mozzie said with a high-pitched cackle.

~~~~~~~~~~

The very next night, the heist went off without a hitch. The news of the brazen theft made the front page of the _Washington Post_ as well as _The New York Times_. While Kramer ranted and raved, Neal waited for Kate’s call. Mozzie spent the hours gazing at “Portrait of a Youth” by Sandro Botticelli and trying to decide if the young man’s slightly knobby hand was a manifestation of juvenile arthritis.

Peter tried his best to duck the almost constant calls from Philip Kramer. It was the same old song and dance, and he was tired of the wrathful tirades. He had Jones and Diana, his probies, deflect some of them by saying that Peter was tied up in budget meetings. On the third day, Jones informed his boss that Kramer claimed there was a “dire emergency” and to get _Petey_ out of whatever meeting he was in or heads would roll.

Peter knew that he had to finally face the music, so with a defeated sigh, he returned Kramer’s call.

Kramer immediately went on the offensive. “What kind of bureaucratic crap is going on up in your neck of the woods, Petey? Successful FBI agents don’t sit on their asses all day and banter around figures on spread sheets!”

“Unfortunately, Phil, that kind of ‘crap’ comes with the territory of being head of a unit,” Peter answered tiredly.

“Well, put down your pencil and listen up. I’m heading your way. We got an anonymous call yesterday from some woman who claims that Caffrey has those stolen paintings from the National Museum of Art and he’s going to be stashing them in a storage locker in Queens tomorrow. That’s your turf, so I’m giving you a heads-up so that you can crash the party with me. If this tip is on the level, we’re actually going to catch him with the goods in his hand, and he won’t be able to wiggle out of it this time.”

Peter had his doubts that someone was ratting out Caffrey. The guy swanned through life making friends, not enemies—Phil Kramer being the exception, of course. It just seemed too easy. Nonetheless, when the DC dynamo came strutting through the bullpen like a little bantam rooster, Peter accommodated his request for surveillance on the storage facility. The next day he arranged for another SWAT team to be hunkered down a few rows over in the complex. The web had been spun and the spiders awaited their prey.


	12. Chapter 12

“This is a terrible idea, Neal,” Mozzie whined. “If Kate is supposed to be somebody’s prisoner, then how come she can flit around New York City to meet you in a storage locker? That seems very unorthodox to me. This whole ‘Save me! Save me!’ plea could be a setup. If her agenda really is about running from Keller or his enemies, then maybe she’s the one who wants the painting. Maybe Kate’s planning to fence it so that she can finance her escape. Of course, there’s another, more dire possibility. Worst case scenario, Kate isn’t there at all. Instead, some muscle-bound thug with a gun greets you when you step one foot inside. Storage lockers are great places to stash bodies, or so I’ve heard.”

“Kate said she was in trouble, Moz, so I’ve got to do this,” Neal argued.

“For a really smart guy, sometimes you can be very dumb,” Mozzie muttered.

“Moz…” Neal said tiredly.

“Do what you need to do, mon frère, but just let me offer one last quote by John Wolfgang von Goethe—it’s very suitable to this situation, I think. ‘ _We are never deceived; we deceive ourselves.'”_

~~~~~~~~~~

Mozzie had been right. It really had been a gross miscalculation on Neal’s part. He had let a heart filled with equal parts unrequited love and guilt direct his actions that day. When he entered that storage locker, Kate had been waiting, looking as beautiful as ever, and Neal felt a spark of hope swell in his chest. However, that emotion was short-lived as black-clad SWAT members came storming in with lethal guns. They quickly formed a circle around him, giving him but a second to search Kate’s face for answers. She had shrunk back against a wall out of harm’s way and refused to meet his agonized eyes. Neal was quickly distracted when his arms were yanked behind his back and handcuffs were snapped into place. Just then, Agent Kramer came sashaying into the small space followed by Peter Burke.

“Well, well—if it isn’t Mr. Caffrey,” Kramer sneered. “I very much wanted to renew our acquaintance, and now here you are. You don’t look so suave and debonair right now, you little punk. In fact, you look like the slimy sneak thief that you are because I’ll wager there’s some stolen masterpieces in that art tube hanging on your shoulder.”

Kramer didn’t wait for Neal respond. The gloating little martinet grabbed the art carrier, turned on his heel, and sauntered out the door. Neal had to grit his teeth when he heard the man’s laughter echo through the metal walls. Agent Burke, however, edged his way into Neal’s field of vision looking anything but smug. To Neal, he just looked sad and almost disappointed.

“I guess it’s game over, Agent Burke,” Neal said with a rueful little smile and a shrug of his shoulders. “I’d shake your hand like a gentleman, but, as you can see, that’s a little difficult for me to do right now.”

Peter turned serious. “I couldn’t, in good faith, shake your hand, Neal. That would be hypocritical. I didn’t best you in our game with feats of intellectual prowess. Apparently, there were other factions in this competition who weren’t playing by the rules.”

Neal wasn’t given time to respond as a Federal ninja grabbed his bound arm and roughly herded him outside. Peter tracked the cornered criminal with his eyes until he disappeared from view. Then he walked over to a beautiful young woman who very much resembled his wife with thick dark hair and clear blue eyes. Of course, Peter noticed the physical similarities, but this girl was very unlike his sweet and gentle wife. Kate’s eyes were cold and cunning as she leveled Peter with a challenging stare.

“Did you ever really love him?” Peter asked curiously.

He never got an answer, just a hardening of the same aloof gaze.

~~~~~~~~~~

In a matter of months, Neal’s trial commenced. Mozzie tried his best to defend his client against the charge of grand larceny, but the evidence was overwhelming. Neal had been in possession of the stolen Raphael from the National Museum of Art. The Botticelli, however, was nowhere to be found. Mozzie and Neal considered that to be a pyrrhic victory.

The presiding judge listened to Philip Kramer pontificate on the stand as he alluded to all the other crimes that Neal was suspected of committing. Mozzie kept objecting that this damning testimony should be stricken from the record as unsubstantiated conjecture. It was, but, nonetheless, the judge had heard it and it couldn’t be unsaid.

In the end, Neal was sentenced to five years in prison. The prosecuting attorney weighed in with his biased argument. He claimed that this defendant was a wily and innovative criminal who had long eluded the authorities. Although this might be considered a nonviolent crime, the defendant should not be rewarded by being sent to a low security penal facility. That would be like giving him a key to the front door.

Mozzie tried to mitigate that argument by reminding the judge that Neal had never been convicted of a crime before this unfortunate incident.

“Your Honor, he never so much as got a parking ticket! My client is young and reckless and had a serious lapse in judgment. He was trying to impress a girl. How adolescent is that? Now he’s seen the error of his ways, and a few years of incarceration in a minimum-security institution will give him time to reconsider his life choices and find the straight and narrow. He can get his high school GED and maybe even consider on-line college courses. He wouldn’t be able to do all of that in a hard-time prison.”

The judge gave Mozzie a cynical look. “From what I’ve heard, your client already has an extensive education and an advanced degree in how to break the law and circumvent justice. Therefore, I am ordering that Mr. Caffrey be a guest of the state of New York for the next five years in Sing Sing prison in Ossining.”

When the judge’s gavel came down, Neal’s heart sank. This was real and scary, and it took everything in his power to keep his head up and his shoulders squared as he was led from his sentencing hearing. Five years seemed like a lifetime to someone in their twenties. He thought about the other prisoners that he would be rubbing elbows with—murders, rapists, psychopaths, and a shiver ran up his spine. He would be like a lamb served up to the lions. The system that was supposed to punish yet rehabilitate him was going to eat him alive!

Unbelievably, Peter appeared at Rikers Island just before the prison van was to take the long trip upstate to Sing Sing.

Neal tried for bravado when they were seated across from each other.

“Well, I guess they’ll be no more dancing for a while, Agent Burke. I’ll certainly miss our game.”

Peter was very serious as he answered. “Listen to me, Neal. For once in your life, stop with the kitschy act and _really_ listen. When you get to Sing Sing, just follow the rules and keep your head down. Don’t make waves. Do _not_ draw attention. Do _not_ try to charm _anyone_ or you may find yourself with other, less benign dance partners. Five years is not a lifetime. It will pass, and you can start again in a different, better direction. You have a lot to offer, so don’t sell yourself short and think that flaunting and breaking the law is your only alternative.”

“Will you miss me?” Neal wanted to know. He was trying to be blasé, but somehow it came out sounding insecure and plaintive.

“Yeah,” Peter admitted, “I think I will.”

“Well, I could keep in touch, maybe send more sketches, just so you don’t forget about me.” Neal offered.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Neal,” Peter said softly as he gazed at a defeated yet hopeful kid looking forlorn in an orange jump suit. It brought out Peter’s protective instinct, or maybe it was his possessive one. Neal, in any form, was quicksand for Peter. If Peter let his guard down, this beautiful young Svengali would surely suck him down into a dark, forbidden abyss. But suddenly, the smitten man realized that he wouldn’t mind. Now Peter was the one who was frightened.


	13. Chapter 13

“Oh, Peter, how sad for Neal,” Elizabeth Burke lamented. “They really threw the book at him even though he’s a first-time offender.”

Peter looked at his wife with wide, mocking eyes.

“Okay, Peter, don’t give me that face. I know that Neal’s responsible for more past crimes than you can count, but still, this punishment seems excessive. Sticking him in a hellhole like Sing Sing is overkill to me, and I think I’ll worry about him even if you don’t.”

“Well, I suspect Phil Kramer wields a lot of clout and may have had some input into his sentencing,” Peter admitted.

“You should visit him on a regular basis, just to make sure he’s okay,” El suggested.

Peter gave his wife the same answer that he had given Neal. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Hon.”

“Why not, Peter? Are you afraid that you may be leading him on and giving him false hope?”

Peter sighed. “El, Neal’s a criminal—an attractive and alluring con man. He plays games. I’d never be able to trust that he wouldn’t be using me or us because he has an agenda. Sure, he’s been flirting, but to him that’s like breathing. It’s his default setting. It probably isn’t real and never will be. I need to keep my distance.”

“Well, maybe you’re afraid of your feelings, Peter, but I’m not,” his wife decreed. “I intend to meet your hopeful would-be lover face to face. As soon as he’s allowed visitors, I’m going to see him.”

Peter was shocked. “That’s a terrible idea, El. Don’t encourage something that we would never follow through on when he gets out. Besides, all conversations between inmates and visitors are monitored, and something that you may inadvertently allude to could be my downfall.”

“Give me some credit, Peter. I’m smarter than that.” Elizabeth decreed.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal wasn’t stupid either, and he _had_ heeded Peter Burke’s advice. He kept a low profile, and was mindful not to antagonize any other inmates or trespass into their territory. He was courteous to his keepers, and wound up being assigned to the prison library after his probationary period ended.

Time passed with agonizing slowness, and he routinely marked its passage with little tally marks on the wall of his cell. Thankfully, it was a single accommodation and he didn’t have to worry about knocking boots with some sex-deprived lifer. Even though he wasn’t averse to that kind of action, Neal wanted to be the one to choose his partner.

It certainly didn’t help that his fantasies routinely alternated between Kate and Peter as his own right hand brought him to a climax on his solitary bunk. If he were being honest, neither of those two people were ever going to return his feelings. Kate was a Judas who had sold him out. Her thirty pieces of silver was a Raphael. Peter—well, that was a bit more complicated. Neal was sure Peter was afraid that he would be selling his soul if he gave in to his true desires. It made Neal depressed to realize that he was never more alone now. Mozzie’s quote about deceiving one’s self seemed especially fitting considering Neal’s present circumstances.

Then one day he was told that he had a visitor. Neal was surprised. Mozzie now kept his distance, so there wasn’t anyone else that Neal could think of who would visit. As he entered the hall to take his place inside the thick, bulletproof windowed cubicle, his heart suddenly stuttered in his chest. He had momentarily perceived an impression of long dark hair and an ivory complexion. Of course, Kate immediately appeared in his head. But it wasn’t Kate. When his vision cleared, he was surprised to see Elizabeth Burke patiently waiting on the other side of the glass.

Neal sat down slowly and tried to compose his features into something bland as he and his guest both lifted a phone receiver to their ears.

“Hello, Neal,” Elizabeth Burke said softly with a tentative little smile.

“Mrs. Burke,” Neal acknowledged, “this is a surprise.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” she agreed.

Then fear gripped Neal’s heart. “Has something happened to Peter—I mean, Agent Burke? Is that what you’ve come to tell me?”

Now it was Elizabeth’s heart that was jolted. It was suddenly filled with clarity as well as overwhelming pity. Regardless of her husband’s assessment of Neal’s deceptive and manipulative character, El knew she was seeing the real Neal without any artifice. She was looking beyond the façade that had crumbled before her eyes. This was a vulnerable young man who wore his heart on his sleeve, and she felt desperately sorry for him.

“Peter’s fine, Neal,” she reassured him. “I’m here to make sure that you’re fine, as well, and I’ll certainly make my husband aware. Although he is concerned, you must realize that Peter couldn’t come himself.”

“Right, right,” Neal quickly answered as he ducked his head. “That would smack of impropriety, and we certainly couldn’t have that.”

“No, we couldn’t,” El agreed. “Federal agents are under scrutiny all the time by their superiors. Even in government circles, it’s a dog eat dog world, and one has to watch their step very carefully. Sometimes, the most innocent of actions can be misconstrued. As you can imagine, Peter is walking a tightrope every day.”

“Sure, I get that,” Neal answered although he was uncertain what Peter’s wife was trying to cloak in broad euphemisms. Was this a jealous wife staking out her territory, or merely a concerned spouse protecting her man? Then a vestige of something else niggled in a small corner of Neal’s mind. Was Elizabeth Burke offering an excuse for something altogether different? For once in his life, Neal felt that he had met his match, and maybe it wasn’t Peter Burke after all.

“Well, I guess that you can see that I’m still in one piece, so he doesn’t have to worry about me,” Neal tried to maneuver the conversation back to safer ground.

“Neal,” El whispered into the phone, “Peter will always think about you and worry about a lot of things. Maybe, after you do your time, you can put his uncertainties to rest regarding some unresolved issues and your future intentions. Both my husband and I would like that,” El said matter-of-factly.

~~~~~~~~~~

One week later, a small package arrived addressed to Elizabeth. The postmark was Ossining, New York. She quickly opened the parcel to find an unsigned pen and ink sketch. El sat down on the couch and smiled softly as she admired the delicate strokes and meticulous crosshatching. The little picture depicted a handsome Black Labrador Retriever imprisoned at a dog pound. A woman with dark hair was crouched down in front of his cage with her hand extended through the bars. She was offering a bone, and the dog had an adoring, hopeful expression on his face as his paw reached out to touch her bent knee.

“Oh, Neal,” Elizabeth murmured with tears in her eyes.


	14. Chapter 14

The next month ushered in a horrifying event, tantamount to an apocalypse for Peter and Elizabeth. A deadly riot had erupted at Sing Sing State Prison, and was still ongoing after three days. Nobody seemed quite sure what had lit the powder keg that exploded one Tuesday afternoon. Maybe the action had been carefully planned, or maybe it had spontaneously combusted. Maybe it wasn’t even that surprising.

If you put desperate, dangerous men with nothing to lose together in overcrowded conditions with a harsh, bigoted warden at the helm, the bomb was primed and ticking, just waiting to go off. One of the off-duty guards did tell authorities that a few days before the riot began, several Muslim prisoners complained that there was salt pork in the beans they were given for dinner. They had become very vocal as well as physical in their protests, and all were taken to solitary. Rumors spread like wildfire along the prison grapevine that the men were being tortured, and tension within the walls of the prison escalated to a flashpoint.

Unbelievably, previously sworn enemy gangs joined forces—members of the Aryan Brotherhood, PEN1, and the Nazi Low Riders stood elbow to elbow with Neta and the Black Guerrilla Family. The temporary alliance gave them the power to go wilding on an epic scale. Guards were beaten to death with their own batons, while trustees and suspected prison snitches were garroted or stabbed with knives taken from the prison kitchen. The inmates removed the keys of slain prison personnel and obtained a stash of riot guns. Not surprisingly, they went in search of the warden. The man wasn’t on the premises that day, but the assistant warden was and received a shotgun blast to the chest. Mercifully, he died instantly and wasn’t subjected to a long and protracted torture.

Water and power to the prison were shut off by the New York State Militia and the National Guard, and soon after, fire engulfed one of the cell blocks. It wasn’t clear if that was intentional or a result of someone trying to use a combustible means to provide illumination as darkness fell. Repeated efforts by the National Guard to start a dialogue with someone inside the prison proved fruitless. Authorities had no way of knowing if there were still any live hostages left, or even if the prisoners desired to use them as bargaining chips for negotiation. So far, no demands had been forthcoming. Maybe there simply was no ringleader or spokesperson for a crazed horde of convicts who had reverted to a primitive state.

Peter and Elizabeth sat at home watching the talking heads of the media who were on-site. Peter’s heart was in his throat as the camera man panned behind the commentator to show the flames licking their way high into the sky above the dark outline of the fortress. Neal was in there somewhere, maybe dead by now. Peter sought to steady his shaking hands. El was already a weepy bundle of nerves, tossing tissue after tissue into the wastebasket as she, too, sat mesmerized in front of the television set.

Finally, the Governor gave the order, and another army breached the walls of the prison. The Marines had arrived on site, and they used flash bangs, tear-gas, and deadly military weaponry to make their way through the bloody corridors. In a matter of forty-five minutes, the all-clear was sounded. The carnage was unbelievable. As first responders arrived and started tallying the toll, it was mindboggling. The bodies of twenty-seven guards were removed as well as the corpse of the unlucky assistant warden.

The inmate devastation, however, was four times greater and climbing as many of the wounded succumbed before ever arriving at a hospital. A triage area and an impromptu morgue were hastily erected near the now smoldering building. At last count, one hundred and ten inmates were officially pronounced dead. It wasn’t yet clear if there were other charred bodies lying in the fire zone.

Peter was immediately on the phone trying to use his Federal credentials to get a list of the dead as well as the casualties. He was shut down pretty quickly because identifications first had to be confirmed and notifications made to the families of the deceased. The Governor threatened that heads would roll if anything was leaked to the press this early in the process. Later, he promised to give a briefing. In the meantime, he claimed that a full investigation into this tragedy was already underway.

“That’s like closing the barn door after the horse has already gotten out,” Peter complained to El. “Why does the Federal government mandate huge appropriations for stupid little senatorial pet projects while ignoring prison system reform?”

Elizabeth had no answer for that. She just stared at her husband with big, frightened eyes.

That tragic look was Peter’s undoing. He took his wife in his arms and murmured into her hair. “I’ll find him, El. I will! That’s going to be etched on my tombstone _—‘Peter Burke, the man who spent his life trying to find Neal Caffrey.’”_

_~~~~~~~~~~_

Peter made good on his promise, but it had taken three days to accomplish. He had driven up to Ossining and wasn’t leaving until he had an answer. He noted that areas of the prison were shut down for cleanup, while other sections were awaiting building inspectors to confirm if they were structurally sound, especially near where the fire had raged.

He was almost turned back at the gatehouse, but he stubbornly dug his heels in and refused to be intimidated. Finally, he was granted entrance and escorted to an empty day room that still had vestiges of the riot in the form of broken furniture and graffiti-tagged walls. He paced incessantly until a hastily appointed prison official walked in and explained that Sing Sing had over 2,000 inmates that they were seeking to track. He also explained that prison records and files had been incinerated during the riot, so he had no idea where Neal Caffrey’s cell block might have been before everything had transpired. Caffrey might be temporary lodged somewhere else at the moment, and he wasn’t sure who would know.

“I realize that you have a lot on your plate right now,” Peter said patiently, “but couldn’t you ask some of the guards on duty today. Somebody might know where he is.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll ask around, but no promises,” was the grudging answer.

Thirty minutes later, an obese African-American guard walked in and officially introduced himself.

“But everybody just calls me ‘Bobby,’” he explained. “I was the night guard assigned to Neal’s cell block. Caffrey was an okay kind of guy—never caused any trouble, always made sure to ask about my kids. He even did a pen and ink sketch of my oldest girl. It looked real professional even though he was working from a candid shot of her high school graduation.”

“Do you know what happened to him?” Peter asked anxiously.

“From what I hear, Neal was working in the prison library when this whole fiasco went down. It was just him and this elderly lady who volunteers her time once a week to organize things. Well, they were sort of trapped, so they hunkered down for the duration. When the power went out and the Marines breached, it was pitch black in that room. They assumed that Neal was holding this little old lady hostage and they came at him hard. To make a long story short, he was transferred out with the second wave to some nearby hospital. Sorry, but I haven’t heard anything since.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Peter mumbled as he shook the guard’s hand.

“You know,” Bobby’s voice temporarily stopped Peter’s departure, “it’s not my place to overthink things, but I really don’t understand why someone like Neal was sent to a place like this. The way I see it, he was like a little minnow in a river of piranha.”

“I hear ya,” Peter agreed. “Now I guess I’m off on an adventure called _“Finding Nemo.”_


	15. Chapter 15

Peter began calling every local hospital in and around the city of Ossining. Nobody had a Neal Caffrey registered as an in-patient. “Maybe you have a _John Doe_ ,” Peter had argued and proceeded to give a detailed description of Neal. That was a dead-end, as well. So, he cast his net farther afield and finally hit pay dirt about twenty-five miles north in a surrounding suburb. Apparently, the huge initial influx of casualties had overwhelmed the few trauma centers around the prison, so those victims who were more stable were sent to facilities farther away.

When Peter approached the patient information desk, he began to get nervous once more when he was told that Neal was in the Intensive Care Unit. That unit was small, just twelve beds, and it was easy to locate Neal because a state trooper was seated outside of his small cubicle. Peter walked over and showed his FBI badge to the guard.

“How long has he been here in the ICU?” Peter asked as he gazed through the glass at a pale Neal hooked up to a tangle of wires and intravenous tubing.

“Transferred in yesterday, and seems to be going down the tubes fast,” the cop answered. “Not sure why, though. The doctors don’t tell me anything.”

“Well, they’re certainly going to be more forthcoming with me!” Peter said firmly.

It took some dedicated insistence, but eventually a physician in a white lab coat made himself available.

“Tell me what’s wrong with that patient,” Peter demanded as he hooked a thumb in Neal’s direction.

“I’m not sure that is something that I should be discussing with you,” was the haughty reply. “Even prisoners have a right to privacy about their health, and I am not at liberty to discuss Mr. Caffrey’s condition with you without his documented permission.”

Peter was tired of getting the run around and slammed his FBI shield onto the counter of the nurse’s station.

 “This gives me the right to know, Doctor. Neal Caffrey is an incarcerated prisoner in a federal penitentiary. He is a ward of the state of New York at the present time. The federal government covers the cost of his health care, and, as such, has a vested interest in being apprised of his status. I am a member of the federal government. Ergo, I am responsible for him and wish to know what is wrong with him. Are we on the same page now?”

It sounded good to Peter’s ears, but he really wasn’t sure that it was a valid claim. The doctor probably wasn’t sure either, but decided to err on the side of caution when dealing with a very angry federal agent.

Clearing his throat, the physician began his recitation. “The patient presented with severe traumatic contusions and lacerations to the head, neck and upper torso. X-rays confirmed that he suffered several broken ribs on the right side of his chest, one of which punctured a lung. A chest tube was inserted to keep the lung expanded and the patient was progressing well until he acquired a hospital-borne staph infection. That quickly led to sepsis which we are combating with a cocktail of three potent intravenous antibiotics. We are hoping that we’ll see a turn-around in his condition soon. However, at the present time, he is very febrile and that is causing some delirium. If you intend to question him, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. He won’t be making any sense at this juncture.”

“But he will get better,” Peter said tentatively. “You said that you were using potent antibiotics, right?”

“Unfortunately, Agent Burke, for lack of better terminology, it’s a crap shoot right now. As I said, we are hoping for a good outcome, but medicine can only do so much. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to making rounds.”

Peter felt pole-axed. How could everything go so wrong so fast? A now subdued Peter returned to Neal’s cubicle, gave the trooper a mirthless grimace, and walked through the double glass doors. A battered Neal appeared to be agitated and was moving his head from side to side and murmuring unintelligible things. He wasn’t actually thrashing, but seemed to be in constant motion, nonetheless. The secured ankle chain kept clinking against the metal bed frame, and Peter realized that Neal’s body was shivering uncontrollable. When he placed a hand on the young man’s head, he felt unbelievable heat beneath his fingers.

Peter actually almost fell into a bedside chair because his strength had suddenly deserted him. He forced himself to really look at Neal. It was hard to see the handsome con man beneath the extensive facial bruising and swelling that distorted his features. “This never should have happened,” Peter kept thinking over and over. “He didn’t deserve this.”

Peter tried to parse the feelings that were threatening to overwhelm him. He had finally come to terms with the fact that he wanted Neal in a way that was different, and exciting, and alluring. It was scary to face those traitorous demons, but he was finally man enough to admit what his heart had known all along. However, right now, those feelings of wanting were playing second fiddle to an overpowering desire to protect and keep Neal safe. If the young man survived, Peter vowed to himself that somehow, someway, he had to fix this. 

Before Peter left the ICU, he gave his card to the nurse. “This is my personal cell number. Please let me know immediately if there is any change in Neal’s condition, either good or bad.”

The nurse had carefully taped the information to the front of Neal’s chart. When Peter finally made it back to his car, he dutifully called Elizabeth.

“Did you find him?” she asked anxiously.

“Yeah, I did,” Peter answered softly.

“And?” El prompted.

“It’s not good, Hon. He’s in an Intensive Care Unit at an outlying hospital and he’s really sick with an infection. I was told he may die.”

“I’m coming up there, Peter,” El said breathlessly.

“No, El, stay home for now. There’s nothing that you can do. I’ll keep you posted. I think I’m going to find a motel somewhere and stay until whatever happens actually happens.”

“Peter, you shouldn’t be alone,” El pleaded.

“No, Hon, it’s Neal who shouldn’t be alone, so that’s why I’m staying. I’ve got to be here for him.

“Of course, you do, Peter. You’re a really good man and I love you.”


	16. Chapter 16

Not surprisingly, Elizabeth had her own ideas about where she should be. She quickly packed an overnight bag and joined her husband. Peter seemed grateful to have her by his side and found her strength to be reassuring. He now realized that his feelings were riding a roller coaster and her supportive presence helped to ground him.

That same day, Peter called his supervisor, Reese Hughes, to apprise him of the situation and to explain the reason for his absence from the White Collar Unit.

“Peter, it’s not your responsibility to babysit Neal Caffrey,” Hughes growled. “He’s somebody else’s problem now, so come back here and do the job that _is_ your responsibility.”

Peter sighed. “But I _do_ feel responsible for his present situation, Reese. If it wasn’t for me, he wouldn’t be fighting for his life in a hospital bed.”

Hughes didn’t agree. “He broke the law and was doing the time mandated by the court. That’s not on you, Peter. Please correct me if my memory is failing, but wasn’t it Phil Kramer from DC who made the arrest? Are you going to make him the scapegoat for Caffrey getting roughed up in a prison riot?”

“The only reason that Neal was in the wrong place at the wrong time was because Kramer was hell-bent on taking him down and getting revenge. Initially, I was the one who brought Kramer and the Washington FBI into the situation,” Peter answered.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Hughes said sensibly. “What matters is that a criminal who broke the law was brought to justice.”

Peter kept arguing. “Reese, the punishment should fit the crime. Caffrey didn’t belong in a prison that was one step above hell. He may die because a very vengeful Kramer made sure to put him there. Somehow those proverbial scales of justice are out of balance.”

“I think your perception of the situation is clouded, Agent Burke. You need to regain some perspective and remember which side you are on. We uphold the law. We don’t bend it to accommodate the lawbreaker because of some misguided sense of guilt.”

When Peter remained silent, Hughes was the one who finally capitulated and tossed his agent a short lifeline.

“You’ve got a lot of paid leave coming to you, Peter. I’ll approve seventy-two hours—that’s three days for you to get your head on straight. On the fourth morning, I’ll expect to see you in this office bright and early!”

~~~~~~~~~~

“I’ve been given a small reprieve,” Peter informed his wife. “Now I guess it’s up to Neal to do his thing.”

During the next three days, Peter and El kept a vigil at Neal’s bedside. It was so very hard to watch the young man struggle to fight virulent microbes that were threatening to take control and overwhelm him. If he wasn’t moaning pitifully, he was rambling incoherently, having disjointed one-sided conversations in his head which they couldn’t hear. Sometimes, a name was uttered with clarity, and Peter scowled when he heard “Kate” whispered like a hopeful prayer. Occasionally, Neal would open blue eyes that were bright with fever and stare at them without a hint of recognition. Peter would call to him softly, but Neal seemed to be out of reach and would skitter farther away into his nether world. He almost succeeded in escaping at one point as monitor alarms suddenly shrilled ominously and staff rushed into the room.

“ _Do not do this_ , _Neal!”_ Peter had harshly demanded as he and El were politely but firmly ushered from the small cubicle.

Thankfully, dedicated medical watchdogs were the ones to catch the fleeing felon and return him to an earthly plane. The omniscient hospital equipment had been responsible for alerting them of Neal’s intentions, and they were able to pull him back from the precipice before it was too late. For the time being, he was firmly anchored in the here and now once more.

Later that day, Peter spoke to a now precariously tethered young patient. He suspected that Neal never heard a word, but Peter needed to pretend that he did.

“Neal, I always thought that you were a fighter, not a quitter,” Peter began. “Hell, maybe I thought that you were a damn cat who always landed on his feet no matter how far you fell. Was I giving you too much credit? Was it all a fiction that I built up in my mind? C’mon, Pal, prove to me that you aren’t done yet. The way I see it, we still have a lot of dancing to do.”

Neal mocked Peter by completely ignoring the older man’s heartfelt plea.

~~~~~~~~~~

During his first days in the ICU, Neal’s world had consisted of a kaleidoscope of sounds, colors, and sensations that slid in and out of focus. His reality was skewed, and his perception of time was distorted. Initially, he felt trapped in darkness when he heard pounding feet, screams, and gunshots. He felt a fragile someone clinging to his back. Somehow, Neal sensed that this person wasn’t a threat when he felt her panicked trembling seep through his body and become one with his. He tried to reassure the faceless presence that everything was going to be okay, but he couldn’t bring himself to vocalize that lie. He was just as afraid and wondered if they both would survive this ordeal. There was a good chance that they would be forever entombed in a crypt filled with splashes of colorful book covers.

Neal almost gave up hope, especially when he heard strident klaxons and smelled acrid smoke. It seemed as if drawing the next breath was getting harder and harder, and he knew that he was dying. Apparently, this was going to be the inevitable conclusion to his story. He felt his body spasm with jolts of electricity that probably came from stun guns held by invaders. Someone else was applying hard hands on his chest to push him down to the floor over and over, and he desperately wanted them to stop. Then he isolated a voice wafting over him. It was Peter Burke and he sounded very angry. So, Neal did what Neal did best. He tried to run away.

However, the young con man couldn’t quite manage his escape, and was once again trapped in limbo. Now there were faces to tease and taunt him. There was only a brief glimpse of his mother, lethargic and pale, in an airless room where the shades were tightly drawn. Before he could speak to her, his feverish hallucinations took him to a more pleasant, sunny place.

Neal found himself seated under an olive tree with a paint brush in his hand. When he glanced up, he saw Kate climbing the slope of cobblestones that ascended from the sea. His heart leapt in his chest when she smiled at him, and he offered the painting that he had been finishing. Kate took “Saint George and the Dragon,” but then her shrewd blue eyes turned hard, and she started to walk away. Neal found himself calling her name and, before she could vanish, he managed to capture her hand in his. That hand felt solid and real at first, but when Kate turned, she suddenly wasn’t Kate anymore. The blue eyes that now searched his belonged to Elizabeth Burke, and they were kind and concerned. Neal wanted to sink into her welcoming embrace and lose himself in her goodness.

Of course, how could there be an Elizabeth Burke without a Peter Burke? The FBI agent appeared, tall and rugged, and he looked very predatory. He had Neal locked firmly in his strong arms as they twirled around a glistening parquet dance floor. Then, as Peter moved his hand languidly up and down Neal’s spine, the dance floor became a bedroom, and now both of Peter’s hands were sliding over Neal’s entire naked body. It was sensual and arousing to feel Peter’s weight above him as he gripped Neal’s penis and aligned it with his own. The slow titillating friction was erotic torture until it culminated with the dominant man breaching Neal’s core. Neal didn’t think he had ever felt this desired, and, perhaps for the first time in his life, he experienced true gratifying fulfillment. Maybe this is where he really belonged, body and soul.

Suddenly, Peter was replaced by a doctor attired in baggy green scrubs and a cloth cap to match. Even though a mask covered the lower half of his face, the owlish eyes behind bottle-bottom thick glasses helped Neal to recognize Mozzie.

“Moz, you’ve got to get me out of here,” Neal begged. “Bring your cop car around to the back door and we can blow this pop stand.”

Mozzie’s eyes looked a bit sad. “Sorry, mon frère, no can do. You’re not exactly portable right now.”

“Please, Moz, help me. I know I can make it,” Neal pleaded again. “I _have_ to make it because I just can’t go back to prison.”

Mozzie just shook his head and faded away. Now Neal was alone again high up on a rooftop with a SWAT team steadily scaling ladders to reach him. Neal couldn’t let them capture him, so he simply went to the edge of that roof and stepped off before he even looked down. He felt himself falling for a very long time until he slid beneath the surface of an ocean that was as placid as glass. The wetness soaked through his clothes and he sensed its tendrils engulfing his clammy skin as it puddled around him. He felt like he had run a marathon and the fatigue was overwhelming. Neal tried to get his bearings in this strange new place before he gave in to sleep. He painfully squinted his eyes and looked around in confusion. Unbelievably, Peter and Elizabeth Burke were staring back expectantly into his now lucid eyes!


	17. Chapter 17

Peter Burke immediately let a hopeful smile transform his features, but it was his wife who was the first to speak.

“Welcome back, Sweetie. We were so worried about you.”

When Neal furrowed his brow in confusion, Peter went on to explain.

“You’re in a hospital, Neal, and you’ve been very sick. You had a high fever and you were really out of it for almost three days. Thankfully, the antibiotics that they’ve been pumping into you finally got the upper hand with the infection.”

Neal tried to touch base with reality. “Was there a prison riot, Peter? I may have dreamed that, but it seemed real to me.”

“Yeah, Neal, there was a riot at Sing Sing, and you got caught up in the middle of it. You sustained some injuries, but now I think things are going to be okay.”

“So…,” Neal drawled, “why are the two of you here?”

“Because we were worried about you, silly,” Elizabeth chimed in.

“Oh,” was Neal’s less than complex response as he ducked his head and started fiddling with the blanket that came up to his waist.

To cover his confused embarrassment, the young con man plucked at the light blue garment that he wore.

“It seems that I am always less than my dapper self when you visit, Mrs. Burke. If it isn’t a shapeless orange jump suit, then it’s this less than attractive thing,” Neal said as he indicated the thin cotton hospital gown.

“You don’t have to dress to impress, Neal,” Elizabeth said fondly. “Peter and I like you just the way you are.”

“I take exception to that broad statement,” Peter interrupted. “I like him when he’s a law-abiding citizen.”

“Yeah, you’ve made that abundantly clear,” Neal muttered.

Suddenly Peter became very serious. “Look, Neal, you’ll have to return to prison when you’re well enough. In the meantime, I’m going to do everything in my power to change your situation. I can’t make a hard and fast promise, but I am going to give it my best shot.”

“How, exactly, is that going to work?” Neal wanted to know.

“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll brainstorm the problem and try to come up with a solution that might be agreeable to everybody,” Peter answered.

“Thanks—I think,” Neal said warily.

~~~~~~~~~~

Reese Hughes was a contrary hard-sell.

“Peter, what your asking is out of the question. I’m surprised that you even thought this would fly with either me or the guys at Justice.”

“But it makes perfect sense, Reese—it takes a criminal mastermind to catch another one. Neal knows all the tricks of the trade and has access to some avenues that we at the Bureau could never enter. He would be a valuable asset and our success statistics could soar.”

“That may be true, but we’re not going to put him to the test until he finishes out his sentence—and maybe not even then,” Hughes said gruffly. “If you want to talk statistics, Peter, well, let me quote you some. Are you aware that studies have shown that 60-70% of former prisoners are rearrested, and 52% are re-incarcerated within three years of being released from prison. Thieves are the most likely to be rearrested to the tune of 80%.

Peter had a quick counter-argument. “After what happened to Caffrey in Sing Sing, I very much doubt that he would want to do anything that would result in him going back.”

Hughes sighed tiredly. “So, we’ve circled back to that guilt issue that seems to be a monkey on your back.”

Peter frowned. “For Neal, that issue was a gorilla the size of King Kong. He almost died, Reese. A brilliant twenty-something kid almost died in a prison where he never should have been in the first place. Surely, we owe him something for his pain and suffering besides more of the same.”

Now Hughes was giving Peter a narrow-eyed squint. “I suppose that you’ll want to be responsible for Caffrey’s supervision, and I don’t think that’s wise. Having a pet project could cause tunnel-vision. I think that you are too invested in him, and you may become compromised at some point and jeopardize your career.”

“That sounds like you don’t have very much faith in my judgment, Reese, but I think your fears are unwarranted and groundless. Surely you are aware of my integrity, or, at least I think you should be after all our years together. You know that I don’t go through life with blinders on. I take in the whole picture and make an informed evaluation before I act.”

“Peter, I don’t doubt you; I doubt Caffrey. How can I trust that he has integrity or loyalty or any traits other than duplicity?”

“Okay, Reese, how about we pair him up with another agent who has no preconceptions or biases?”

Hughes actually laughed. “Peter, you know there’s absolutely no one who would be willing to take him on. His reputation precedes him.”

“So, I guess that leaves me by default,” Peter quipped. 

Reese Hughes was suddenly feeling his age. He sat down wearily in his chair and stared at his favorite agent. “Okay, Peter, you win. Against my better judgment, I’ll run it up the flagpole with Justice. If this gets off the ground, I fervently hope that I don’t have to say ‘I told you so’ down the road. And, on the off chance that I see him come swanning in here one day, make sure to keep him away from me!”

~~~~~~~~~~

Back at Sing Sing, Peter was surprised when Neal proved to be as reluctant as Peter’s boss.

“So, you want me to snitch on my friends?” Neal asked incredulously.

“No,” Peter patiently explained. “I want you to help me catch criminals.”

“But what if some of those criminals happen to be my friends?” Neal needed clarification.

“I guess that we can cross that bridge when and if we come to it,” Peter said the first thing that came into his head.

When Neal gave Peter a narrow-eyed squint that mirrored the one that Peter had gotten from Hughes, he tried another tactic.

“Look, Neal, the FBI has a wide purview. We investigate foreign lotteries, mortgage fraud, the importing of illegal knockoffs from overseas, and a lot of other mundane stuff, so your former cohorts in crime may never be in danger.”

“That sounds really boring and you’re not doing too well with the sales pitch,” Neal quipped.

“Please tell me why I have to ‘sell’ you on this, Neal? Surely, I’m offering you something better than what you have now. In essence, it’s a ‘get out of jail free’ card.”

“But I really won’t be free,” Neal argued. “You showed me a picture of a bulky tracking anklet that I’d have to wear, and a two-mile radius—well, two miles is just a tiny microcosm in the big wide world.”

“And the big wide world is not going to be your oyster for the next four and a half years, Neal. You get that concept, right? Your world can either be here at Sing Sing or my world in New York City. It’s not rocket science, Buddy. You’d be a fool to turn down the opportunity."

“Yeah, quite a step up in the world,” the young man muttered. “Neal Caffrey—the White Collar Division’s new mascot. I should have business cards printed.”

“Is that a yes?” Peter wanted to know.

“It’s a ‘maybe,’ Agent Burke. Let me think about it.”

“Well, you’ll need to be aware of my stipulations while you’re pondering your fate,” Peter said seriously. “If we wind up working together, I would expect two things. You can never lie to me, Neal. Secondly, I want you to be completely committed to our arrangement. No cutting the anklet and haring off to your next caper. And definitely no haring off to find Kate.”

“Don’t you have any enticements to sweeten the deal, Peter?” Neal asked as he gave Peter a come hither look.

“No dancing, Neal,” Peter said firmly.

The young man just smiled.


	18. Chapter 18

Neal was taken by surprise when Peter offered the “arrangement,” as Neal had come to think of the possible future scenario. Of course, the calculating con man couldn’t just fold and make things easy for the FBI agent. Any deal should only be concluded after back and forth negotiations, and Neal was sure that he could use his powers of persuasion to win a few concessions. The trouble was—he wasn’t sure what those concessions should be.

It was tempting to think of leaving prison behind and joining the human race once more. So far, Neal had been lucky, that is, if you didn’t count getting caught up in a dangerous prison riot. He hadn’t been bothered by the various lethal gangs that ruled the roost behind iron bars, nor had any depraved predators set their sights on him. He was an anonymous inmate with a number who coasted through his days trying to remain invisible. However, that was a real drag for someone who thrived on constant stimulation and new challenges.

If, however, Neal opted for “government” work, he would be the focus of the enemy from day one. He certainly didn’t welcome that kind of scrutiny. A good con artist remains in the shadows and keeps people guessing. A daily 9-5 stint in a room full of suspicious and intrusive Feds might uncloak his super powers. However, it would be a challenge to keep one step ahead of his watchdogs.

And then there was Peter Burke, the poster boy for a walking dichotomy. Neal could read people—that was his forte, his stock in trade. He knew what was true even if Peter didn’t. The FBI agent was smitten and lusted after something that he thought was verboten. He was definitely tempted, but was afraid to stray that far off the reservation. Peter liked rules because they safely delineated his life, and he knew that Neal liked to break rules with abandon. Neal would just have to work a little harder to make sin a bit more appealing. Maybe one day they would get to dance.

Neal was still going back and forth in his mind with his analysis when Mozzie showed up at Sing Sing. The little bald man had presented all the proper credentials to prove that he was Neal’s attorney of record. As such, he was granted a private, unmonitored visit with his client in a small sequestered room.

Mozzie sat down primly across the table from Neal and carefully scrutinized the young man.

“Well, I must say that you look a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you.”

Neal smiled. “So, that _was_ you in my hospital room and not just a character that I dreamed up when I was traveling the delirium highway.”

“From my observations that night, I think you were lucky to be traveling anywhere, Neal. It looked as if you were just about to slip a heavenly archangel a C-note to let you past the gates,” Mozzie mocked.

“Well, it is good to see you in the flesh, Moz,” Neal said fondly.

“Now don’t go all maudlin on me, Neal. It doesn’t suit you,” Mozzie scolded. “I’m here on a mission. I heard that your Agent Burke offered you a deal.”

“How do you know about that?” Neal asked incredulously.

“I have my ways that I am not going to share. It’s part of my mystique,” Neal’s friend answered smugly.

“Yeah,” Neal admitted, “Peter came bearing gifts, but they have strings attached.”

“Are you seriously considering his offer? Are you so desperate that you’re willing to sell your soul to ‘The Man,’ mon frère?”

“Mozzie, you’re not living my life in here. Actually, it’s not even a life but more of an existence that won’t end for over four more years,” Neal complained. “Maybe Peter’s offer is looking really good right now, and there may be a few perks that could come my way if I play my cards right.”

“Ah,” Mozzie said with a sage expression. “I think I see where this is going. As usual, you’re going to try to pluck fruit from the forbidden tree. You think that you can seduce him into complacency, either literally or figuratively. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“I think that I’d prefer literally,” Neal admitted. “There’s something about Peter that I find extremely alluring.”

Mozzie heaved a gusty sigh. “You’ve been there, done that, and gotten the t-shirt, Neal. Didn’t you learn anything from the Kate debacle? For an extremely brilliant man, you really suck in matters of the heart. You can’t seem to see the forest for the trees, and you get your heart broken every time. I’m all for giving one’s libido free rein, but be a bit more discriminating. Peter Burke will use and abuse you, and you’ll wind up getting hurt.”

Neal’s expression alternated between stubborn and pitiful, and Mozzie knew that it was a lost cause. He tried to regroup.

“At least negotiate for a greater radius than just two miles. It will be hard for us to conduct our own side business if we have to be constantly checking longitudes and latitudes.”

“Maybe I’m thinking of retiring from that business, Moz. Maybe I’m tired and want to put down roots.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus, it’s worse than I thought!” Mozzie wailed. “Neal, you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Peter Burke is one of the pigs, and you can’t change him into someone who is as smooth and slick as us!”

“I may have a co-conspirator in Elizabeth Burke,” Neal argued. “That takes the impossible and puts it in the realm of possible. I won’t know unless I try, Moz.”

Mozzie shook his head sadly. “How far the mighty have fallen. Just like always, yours truly will have to be the one to pick up the pieces once again.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Of course, in the end, Neal agreed to Peter’s deal, and their strange saga began. Initially, Peter had attempted to use the carrot and stick approach with Neal. The young convicted felon would have to work for rewards to improve his status. So, that first day he had tried to plunk Neal down in the middle of no man’s land in a seedy, roach-infested motel. Mozzie, bless his conniving little heart, had negotiated his own deal with a formidable doyenne who boasted of an impressively nefarious past of her own. Neal, much to Peter’s chagrin, was now miraculously ensconced in the lap of comfort and luxury well within his radius.

Peter retaliated by situating Neal smack dab in the bull pen amidst a horde of suspicious and reproachful G-men. Neal took stock of his adversaries, and thought that he could eventually charm them. However, Peter had a dedicated little posse in the form of Jones and Berrigan, and Neal knew they were a lost cause. To add insult to injury, Neal’s desk was in a direct line of sight for Reese Hughes. The garrulous old man made sure to have a little welcoming speech all prepared for the new addition to the unit. He threatened to nail Neal’s balls up on his office wall if the young felon fucked up. Yeah, Hughes was a real warm and fuzzy guy.

So, the game was on once again. Neal’s next gambit was to push up against the walls of his cage. The very next morning, he showed up unannounced at the Burke’s front door in Brooklyn. Elizabeth smiled at him, and Neal wasn’t quite sure how to interpret that expression.

“Well, I was wondering when I would see your handsome face again, Neal,” El said wryly as she invited him in. “But aren’t you outside of your radius?”

“Am I?” Neal said innocently, “I guess that I wasn’t aware.”

Elizabeth chuckled. “You’re not even over the threshold, and you’re already telling me a lie.”

Neal chose to ignore that accusation. “Then I guess I should be apologizing to Peter. Is he here?”

“He’s in the shower, but I expect him to come flying down the stairs any minute because he’ll be getting an alert from the monitoring agency. Let’s wait in the living room and talk until then.”

“How is it going at the FBI office?” Elizabeth asked curiously.

“It’s challenging,” was Neal’s response, as he ruminated on just how often that word was being bantered about these days.

“Your husband is a stern taskmaster,” he added. “He never gives an inch, so I don’t have much wiggle room.”

“Wiggle room?” Elizabeth repeated with her eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, he doesn’t seem to want to test out any opportunities to improve our ‘working’ relationship. I have some ideas on that subject, but Peter just doesn’t want to consider them. It’s a bit frustrating for me.”

“Maybe it’s a bit frustrating for him as well,” El said thoughtfully, and Neal’s hope rose from the ashes.

“Well, it’s not very complicated and I think that we could make it work. What do you think, Elizabeth?”

“I think that my husband is a very cautious man who likes to be sure of his facts before he commits to something. I personally believe that’s a wise way to conduct one’s life. Taking a leap into the unknown could be very dangerous for everyone concerned.”

“So, how do you suggest that I convince him of the facts?” Neal asked. “Maybe, if you’re on board with my objective, you could give me some pointers so that I’m not spinning my wheels. I guess the real question is—are you on board with the plan, Elizabeth?”

Before Neal got his answer, Peter came galloping down the stairs cursing Neal’s name.


	19. Chapter 19

Unlike Mozzie, Neal was a glass half-full kind of guy. Although he hadn’t gotten Elizabeth’s tacit approval yet, she hadn’t exactly shot him out of the sky when he alluded to a possible romance between himself and her husband. Perhaps Neal needed to revamp his seduction plan and come at it from a different angle. He was good at thinking out of the box. He decided to play the little FBI games and take down criminals. He would dazzle Peter with his expertise and make himself invaluable, and, perhaps, desirable. Maybe then, Peter would realize that Neal was serious about turning his life around and be a little more flexible in other matters.

So, Neal took down the Dutchman. Of course, that feat was accomplished in an unorthodox way, but he didn’t hear Peter complaining, so that was progress.

A few weeks later, it had been so much fun to impress Peter. Miracle of miracle, Reese Hughes, Neal’s nemesis, had finally given in and allowed Neal some latitude. It gave the con man almost a sadistic pleasure to tantalize and dazzle those bland Federal agents with a bevy of beautiful runway models that most could only drool over in glossy magazines. Granted, things had gotten a bit dicey when someone was actually murdered. Neal hated having to experience the disturbing image of a dead body. That evil tableau was so far out of his realm as a “Gentleman Criminal.” In his orbit, the only things that ever bled were bank accounts.

As the scenario unfolded during that escapade, Neal wondered if perhaps the world was beginning to tilt on its axis. Unbelievably, the evening before his handler was to deliver the goods to the murderer, Peter actually asked Neal for advice on how to proceed. It was disconcerting to know that the staunchly confident agent was openly displaying a crack in that levee of Fed-induced self-assurance. Unfortunately, Neal couldn’t supply anything to plug the fissure. Telling Peter to not have a plan, and, in essence, to fly by the seat of his pants, seemed totally inadequate. Not that Neal was really worried or anything. But, if something happened to Peter, all his tactics would go up in smoke because the White Collar Division would ship his ass right back to prison. So, yeah, Neal was worried about himself, not Peter. Sure—that was it. But, on the other hand, it would be really terrible if Elizabeth suddenly found herself to be a widow.

Down the road, it was another case and another real ego trip to piss off some seriously intimidating guys of the bent-nose mob persuasion while the FBI had your back. It was also enormous fun to tweak Peter’s nose with the forged map of Vinland—a case that he could never prove. So there, Peter! Be very aware that you don’t always have the upper hand in our little alliance, and that lucky tie and old healing bible won’t be a bit of help when I’m determined to seduce you.

Iraqi dinars smuggled away from a sphere of combat on the other side of the world was so pedestrian. The escapade lacked the sublime elegance of a theft of a masterpiece from the Louvre. But, Neal would have to work with what he was given, and he had fun irritating Peter once again by brazenly stealing something from a foreign correspondent’s desk right in front of his handler. Now, did that make Peter an accessory to theft? Well, it was certainly food for thought.

There was a little hiccup in the Caffrey camp when Moz got made by Peter, and Neal marveled when that seemed to have somehow worked out just fine. When had a dedicated, diminutive conspiracy theorist morphed into an alien? However, it did feel good to kick back during a meal with Peter and brainstorm until they found a crack in the case against Captain John Mitchell. And, it was gratifying that he could make Peter a hero in Elizabeth’s eyes. She was hopefully Neal’s accomplice in the Peter plot, and she physically reminded him so much of Kate with her long, dark hair and intense blue eyes. If the con man let his mind meander in the dark of night, Neal simply couldn’t help but wonder if Kate had ever loved him as unconditionally as El loved Peter. Neal shut that down really fast, relegating those traitorous thoughts to the darkest corner of his mind.

Over time, Neal began to realize that the domestication of a con man was wreaking havoc in his pre-ordained and stable little world. In a rare moment of introspective honesty, Neal admitted that he seemed determined to be his own weapon of mass destruction. Of course, it all stemmed from his “White Knight” syndrome where he rode in on his impressively virile steed and rescued the beautiful damsel in distress. In this case, said damsel was more of a “Plain Jane” in a yellow dress wearing a locket around her neck. Yeah, well, that was all semantics, ‘cause that homely girl was worth a lot both monetarily and sentimentally.

Neal rationalized that he had to get his jollies wherever he could since Peter was not cooperating. So, placing Peter in a compromising situation with two nubile and eager French mademoiselles was a hoot. But, that had come with a really big price tag. He had also placed an innocent named Julianna in jeopardy—actual physical harm—and when had he ever done that before? Things were getting so damned complicated and it was all Peter’s fault!

 Neal actually found himself confessing to a crime—a first in his experience. But, that wasn’t the worst part. When Neal saw the disappointment on Peter’s face, he wanted to cringe and hide so he wouldn’t have to see the sadness and melancholy etched upon its planes. Damn it! He had to fix this before his handler became so disenchanted with his criminal informant that he would throw up his hands in disgust and simply walk away. Neal’s father had done just that a ton of years ago, and with a child’s mentality, Neal had always felt like he had done something wrong to cause it. This time Neal had the clarity of an adult’s perspective and realized that if Peter walked away, it truly would be all Neal’s fault.


	20. Chapter 20

Peter had a lot of tenure invested in the FBI. He had put in the time and energy and had steadily climbed upward. As the years flew by, he found that there was a treacherous pitfall in being the alpha dog. People expected you to be continually brilliant at your craft. You had to produce, and you simply couldn’t mess up because there were also those people out there just waiting for you to do a face plant. When you have reached a pinnacle, there is nowhere else to go but down. Peter suspected that he might have reached that perilous point.

“The Dutchman” was the current infuriating bugaboo who might be Peter’s undoing. The deal that he forged with Caffrey to catch that elusive foe was a desperate ploy of pitting one very smart criminal against another. However, Peter was a realist and suspected that this whole arrangement wouldn’t work out. Even with a token ankle restraint in place, keeping a grip on Caffrey would be like trying to hold onto quicksilver in your hand.

Initially, Neal’s flamboyance both irritated and intrigued Peter, while Elizabeth was charmed by a young version of Warren Beatty in a black turtleneck. Peter told her not to become too attached or to foster other sensuous thoughts. More than likely, he would be dragging the pretty boy’s ass back to prison at any time.

However, Peter felt ashamed of himself after some malicious taunting in the car one night regarding Kate and her deceit. Suddenly, it became clear to the gruff FBI agent that he had the power to hurt Neal as no one else could. With that realization, Peter didn’t like himself very much, and he vowed to try to make this tenuous enterprise work.

On more than one occasion, Peter thought that he heard Neal mutter, “left brained,” when the determined agent sought to find the answer to a knotty crime using pure, tried-and-true logic. It had happened again as the pair was trying to figure out the identity of a brutal murderer loose in the city during “Fashion Week.” When Peter challenged Neal with a snarky, “Okay, ‘ _Mr. Right Brain_ ,’ how would you come at this?” Neal was only too happy to show Peter how to be creatively innovative.

Alright, Peter had to admit that Caffrey’s solution was far from dull. Gorgeous runway models, glamorous rooftop venues, and influential people might have been a staple in Neal’s previous incarnation as a con artist, but they were definitely not in Peter’s bailiwick. And, being a staid FBI Agent had never provided an opportunity to impersonate a menacing bodyguard right in someone’s face—all totally new experiences with a totally new kind of partner.

Very slowly, the two were getting to know each other, and a very mismatched pair was definitely blazing new, uncharted territory. Surprisingly, things fell into place as they reached a definite comfort zone as a team. Peter felt a swell of relief when Neal paled at the sight of a dead body. If nothing else, he truly believed in his heart that Neal would never resort to violence. However, the young fool had no qualms about interjecting himself into the thick of violence, running headlong and unarmed after a killer.

So, okay, Neal had proven that he could be a valuable asset. To date, he had been behaving himself in a roomful of distrustful FBI agents. He hadn’t stolen any trinkets from the evidence locker, purloined protected information from the Bureau’s database, or picked anyone’s pocket other than Peter’s, which seemed to be fair game for the mischievous little twerp. However, Peter was far from complacent. He still kept meticulous tabs on his CI during the day, and popped that little blinking cursor up on his home laptop every night without fail. Peter found that he was suffering almost as many restless, sleep-deprived nights as he had when he had been on the hunt for the fugitive. El just rolled her eyes and sighed. Peter really didn’t want to send this guy back to prison, so he had to take every precaution to keep that from happening. After all, he didn’t want El to be disappointed.

Hanging around someone who viewed the law differently did have its upside, especially when Peter was determined to go off-book to nab a criminal. Peter blamed his whole current state of mind on that slimy little creep, Ruiz, from Organized Crime. He knew that the arrogant and cocky weasel was definitely on the wrong path when a mob boss got whacked, and Peter wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was determined to show him up. That’s where Neal came in handy.

It was almost as if agent and CI shared an unspoken language—Peter needed a starting point for his investigation, and Neal, with a tacit understanding, would get the information to start the ball rolling. If Peter was honest with himself, he knew that as a FBI agent he really couldn’t justify his actions. A little voice warned that perhaps colluding with a wayward Caffrey wasn’t such a great idea. It might lead to “other” things. Peter would do well to remember the story of the frog and the scorpion. The FBI agent had felt the sting of that scorpion’s tail when his CI confidently alluded to the forged map of Vinland—undoubtedly his handiwork, and undoubtedly something that his handler could never prove. The scorpion was gleefully yanking Peter’s chain, and it wasn’t a comfortable feeling that even his lucky tie could assuage. Neal was a criminal, and probably always would be. Why did Peter think otherwise and wish for the impossible?

Damn! It had happened again. While inside a news studio, Neal had brazenly obtained evidence illegally right in front of Peter’s face, and Peter had covered for him. How far down the rabbit hole had Peter fallen? Apparently, not far enough because the plot thickened as Peter unexpectedly came face to face with a very pivotal person in Neal’s sphere. The astute FBI agent knew that “Dante Haversham” was far from legitimate, but try as he might, he couldn’t get a handle on this seemingly benign and meek little guy. Still waters run deep, and Peter knew there was a lot more to this association. It made him extremely uncomfortable since he was stymied by not knowing exactly how much influence the new player held over Neal.

Peter endured the roller coaster ride of having his sense of well-being suffer the highs and lows of a tumultuous daily existence. On the one hand, it felt so comfortable sitting beside Neal on a restaurant’s patio brainstorming a solution to Captain John Mitchell’s dilemma. But, on the other hand, Peter knew that, realistically, he would always be waiting for the other shoe to drop when Neal decided it was time for a little side venture. Not for the first time, Peter postulated what might have been if he had managed to rein Neal in early in his life of crime. Could he have turned the young man around and pointed him in the direction of the straight and narrow? Peter knew that he had become too emotionally invested in what was probably a lost cause on so many fronts. But, like a terrier, he still hung on.

~~~~~~~~~~

 It had all started out innocently enough. Playing the role of a mentoring parent, Peter was going to teach Neal patience and perseverance to achieve a goal. That entailed tedious and dull surveillance. However, somehow, Neal’s damned penchant for circumvention and improvisation on the fly landed Peter, front and center, in a hotel room with two very eager and amorous French women. Oh, and did he forget to mention Neal’s propensity for being light-fingered had resulted in a stolen work of art?

Thankfully, Peter managed to fix Neal’s latest faux pas, which was a euphemism for “he covered it up.” However, he vowed that this was going to be the absolute last time. Even when his gut told him that Neal had somehow managed to get the upper hand by intimidating a pompous art authenticator from the Channing Gallery, Peter really did not want to open that Pandora’s Box.

Yep, slowly but surely, the FBI agent was sliding deeper down into the dark abyss. He was ferrying his way across the River Styx, working his way up the creek without a paddle, teetering on a high wire without a net—choose whatever metaphor that you liked, but Peter was not the same man he had once been. His life had changed. Now it had become extremely complicated.


	21. Chapter 21

Peter had stomped in the door of his townhome late one night, causing Elizabeth to look up from her book with a concerned face.

“What’s wrong, Hon?”

“Do you really need to ask, El? It’s Neal—it’s always Neal.”

“What’s he done now?” Elizabeth asked while trying to hide her worry.

“He’s knocking me off my game!” Peter snorted.

“Are you saying that Neal is trying to undermine you, Peter?” she asked incredulously.

“Well, maybe not overtly, but, nonetheless, he’s got a plan to take me down. He’s bound and determined to compromise me—to seduce me!”

Elizabeth stifled a giggle. “Aw, poor baby. How horrible for you.”

“This is serious, El,” Peter said sternly. “Everything out of his mouth contains innuendo, and every sentence is rife with a double entendre. Someone is bound to notice at some point, and that’s a disaster waiting to happen. Neal and I are already under intense scrutiny from the top on down. The powers that be are just waiting for one of us to screw up. And that almost happened last night.”

“Oh, do tell,” El said eagerly.

Peter sighed and tried to regain his composure.

“The evening started out with the best of intentions. Neal and I were sitting in the car surveilling two young French women. We suspected they may be our way in to a guy who had a stolen a very valuable painting. Neal can never seem to sit still, and at some point, his twitchy hand was sliding up my thigh. Well, I shut that down really fast and sent him on his way to gather more up-close-and-personal intel with the subjects. Before I knew what was happening, Neal and I and those women wound up in a swanky hotel room, and Neal was dancing and speaking French. Of course, I didn’t understand a word, but I think he was arranging a foursome under the sheets.”

Elizabeth now had a petulant, pouty look on her face. “Well, if that was going down, I should have been invited! It was impolite of Neal not to ask.”

“El, I swear—nothing happened,” Peter said with a degree of angst. “Well, that’s not exactly true. Neal stole a painting and he put both of our asses in jeopardy. I’ll have to fix it, yet again.”

“Peter, don’t you see why Neal does what he does?” El said softly. “He’s trying to impress you. It’s that Kate thing all over again. He’s like a child. If you don’t give him positive attention, then he’ll settle for plucking your nerves to make you take notice. And, while we’re on the subject, why aren’t you giving him the kind of attention that he craves. You know that you want to, so what’s the snag?”

“El, what Neal wants or even what I want is very dangerous. If any relationship in the sexual arena was uncovered, Neal would go back to prison and I would find myself relegated to the evidence locker, or maybe I’d lose my badge entirely. We can’t take that chance. I’m just trying to protect him, you, and myself. I have to be the adult in this situation. If there’s going to be any gratification of pipedreams, they have to be delayed, at least until his probation is up.”

“Have you ever discussed this with him, Peter? I mean, have you told him how you feel and, at the very least, given him some hope?” El asked.

“If you give Neal an inch, he wants a mile, and he wants it right now rather than down the road,” Peter said sadly. “Maybe, at some point during the next four years, he’ll meet somebody else and fall in love—somebody who isn’t the manipulative and self-centered Kate. I wouldn’t want to put any obstacles in his way if that were to happen.”

“Do you think that Neal would let himself be open to that possibility?” El asked.

“Who knows what Neal will do at any given time,” Peter answered.

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter should never have brought up Kate’s name. Like an alluring siren who enticed men to their deaths upon the rocks, she suddenly reappeared in Neal’s life. She had called one Friday night, and using her sexy, alluring voice, apologized over and over for her past sins.

“I just didn’t see another way out,” she claimed pitifully.

“There’s always another way,” Neal said coldly.

“But I’m not as smart and creative as you are, Neal.”

“Why are you calling now?” Neal asked suspiciously. “Have you gotten yourself into another jam and you want my help?”

“No, Sweetheart, it’s not like that. This time I have a way out for both of us,” Kate promised. “Surely, you can’t be happy with your present circumstances, and I have a solution to your problem. We can be together and leave New York and the FBI far behind.”

“What about Keller? What’s his role in all of this?” Neal bluntly laid his cards on the table.

“Matthew has his own difficulties to contend with, and he’ll be languishing in a Russian prison for a very long time,” Kate informed Neal.

“So, where does that leave us, Kate? We’re not the same people we once were. We just can’t rewind and start over like two young kids on a lark,” Neal said softly.

“Yes, we can,” Kate pleaded. “It will be just like it was, maybe even better. I _have_ missed you, even if you don’t want to believe it. That’s why when I acquired a benefactor, I wanted you to come along and be with me. This person has the resources to get us to any foreign shore that we want. We can be sipping drinks with little umbrellas anywhere that our hearts desire. You choose, Neal—a beach, a chalet, maybe even a castle.”

“And just what does this ‘benefactor’ expect in return?” Neal was again suspicious.

“I’ve done some work for him in the past, so he owes me. This will just balance the scales. Come on, Neal, make me happy and say you’ll come. I can’t keep this offer on the table indefinitely. My patron has other fish to fry and can’t stay in town for long.”

“Let me think about it,” Neal said slowly. He had learned the hard way to be leary of “Greeks bearing gifts.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal called Peter two days later, on a Sunday morning, and asked if he would like to watch the weekend football game on June’s big flat screen television.

“I’ll have the beer cold and the wings hot,” Neal promised. “Maybe, during half-time, we can talk.”

Well, that was enough to intrigue Peter, and he arrived in time for kick-off. He watched the game and Neal, too, from the corner of his eye. This was an uncharacteristic invitation from his CI who preferred historical and artistic documentaries to any kind of sports venue. It didn’t allay his worries when Neal sat quietly and displayed none of his normal hyperkinetic energy. Something was definitely going on. Suddenly, Peter was not interested in what was happening on the gridiron. He needed to know what was happening with Neal.

“Spit it out, Buddy!” Peter demanded. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”


	22. Chapter 22

Neal turned to face Peter, his blue eyes wide and guileless.

“I want to know where we stand, Peter. We’ve been working together for almost a year, and you still don’t trust me. I don’t understand why that is. I’ve helped you solve cases, just like you wanted, and your success statistics have soared. I’ve stayed put like a good little pet and not slipped my leash. What more can I do?”

“Yeah, Neal, you have helped to solve cases, but most of the time you color outside the lines and do it in a less than legal way. I’ve covered for you time after time,” Peter reminded his CI.

Neal continued to plead his case. “So, okay, maybe I sometimes do the wrong thing, but it’s for the right reason, Peter. I’m doing it for you.”

Peter snorted disdainfully. “Oh, come on, Neal. Don’t try to tell me that you and Mozzie aren’t always plotting and planning something on the side for your own gain. I’m not stupid.”

“No, Peter, you’re not stupid, nor are you blind. I can’t make it any plainer that I have feelings for you, and Elizabeth, too, but you keep pushing me away. Why don’t you want me?” Neal asked softly.

“Because I’m the adult in this situation, you idiot,” Peter said heatedly. “I can’t just act on impulse and jump your bones for a roll in the hay. If we had a relationship of that nature, it would kill me if, one day, you suddenly decided that the thrill of the forbidden had grown stale. I’m not made that way. When I love someone, it’s for keeps. I don’t think that you’re capable of that kind of commitment, Neal. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.”

Neal’s face was now set, its angular planes hard. “So, nothing is ever going to change. We just continue on for the next four years with me slaving away, sometimes risking my life, for somebody who doesn’t give a damn. Maybe that’s not enough for me, Peter. Maybe I need more!”

“I can’t give you more. At least not now,” Peter said firmly. “Somehow, this feels like a test, Neal, or maybe you’re giving me an ultimatum.”

That remark made Neal jump up from the couch and spread his arms wide.

“So, here we go with the suspicious inquisition,” Neal barked. “Maybe it would be better if you went home to Elizabeth, Peter, before we both say anything else.”

“I think you’re right!” Peter agreed hotly. The door slammed shut as he left the loft.

Later that night, another call came in from Kate. “So, Neal, are you in?”

“I’m in,” was the terse answer.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I told you this would reach critical mass if you didn’t deal with it,” Elizabeth said sadly to her husband. “Poor Neal! He must feel so alone and unloved right now. First Kate grounds his heart to dust, and now you’ve done the same thing.”

“It’s for the best and he’ll get over it,” Peter answered, although he wondered if that were true.

“Peter Burke, you are not that hard-hearted, so don’t try to pretend that you are,” El replied firmly.

“El, one of us has to play the role of parent in this scenario. Neal is like a bratty kid who wants what he wants and thinks that he can wear me down. He has to learn that is not how the world works. It’s a hard lesson for him, I’m sure, but he needs to internalize it, nonetheless. In the long run, maybe he won’t thank me, but he’ll move on to a healthier obsession.”

“I still think there may have been a kinder, gentler way to turn him down and make your point,” El insisted.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal was already at his desk at the White Collar office when Peter walked in that Monday. He nodded at Peter but didn’t speak. So, it was going to be sulking, Peter thought sourly. Tuesday and Wednesday were more of the same frostiness, and since there were no current active cases on their plates, both Agent and CI remained in house. On Thursday, Peter had to be in a budget meeting all day with Hughes. He had his sleeves rolled up and was going over spread sheets when Neal poked his head in the door.

“Thought I’d go out for lunch now,” he said nonchalantly in Peter’s direction, “if that’s okay with you.”

“Sure,” Peter answered distractedly without even glancing up.

Two hours later, it was Jones who interrupted the session. “Peter…a minute?”

“Peter,” Jones whispered when they were in the hall out of earshot. “I just got a call from the Marshals. Neal is out of his radius down by the Hudson. They tried to call your phone, but it kept going to voicemail, so they called me.”

Peter quickly went into his office and pulled his cell out of his jacket pocket. The iPhone had been turned off!

“I’ll take care of this Jones. Let’s keep this on the downlow for now.”

Peter put the pedal to the metal in the Taurus and followed the little blinking dot. He soon finds himself on a tarmac down by the river. Suddenly, he is standing out in the frigid air as snowflakes begin to flutter down, pleading and bargaining, trying to understand.

“I gave you a chance at a better life, Neal.”

“But it’s not the life I want, Peter.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal sighs. The rhetoric is the same—that tired old line about an alternate ending and Neal is blowing it. Why couldn’t Peter get the fact that Neal had his own ideal of what his life should be? Maybe it was that whole white picket fence thing, or maybe it wasn’t. The con man was determined to stay focused without any pangs of guilt clawing at his insides. However, Mozzie’s quote kept reverberating in his mind. _“We feel free when we escape, even if it be but from the frying pan into the fire.”_

Good old Mozzie—he knew how to say goodbyes. You just had to rip the band-aid off quickly and dispassionately. Now why couldn’t Neal do the same? He had managed it with June and Elizabeth, but he was too much of a coward to face Peter. Why should he have regrets or feel strangely torn? Peter had always been a thorn in his side from the very first day that he had put his hands on Neal’s FBI file. Now that annoyance would be gone forever, and Neal should feel relieved.

As the first flurries of snow swirled around him, Neal told himself to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Once he joined Kate on that plane, he could climb back into his own skin again. The real Neal Caffrey would be back right where he should be.

Then Neal’s chance of a “happily ever after” went up in flames. Now it was just Peter who remained to collect the broken pieces left behind.


	23. Chapter 23

Peter immediately began damage control. He told Hughes and the Marshals that Neal was supposed to meet a fence down at that hangar, something that Peter had sanctioned. Jones wisely kept his mouth shut. When Neal didn’t turn up for work the next day and Hughes raised his eyebrows, Peter quickly made an excuse.

“He was pretty close to that explosion, Reese, and got banged around a bit. I told him to take the day. He’ll probably be up to speed after the weekend.”

“Well, see that he is. We don’t coddle criminals, Peter,” was the gruff reply.

Then the old man needed clarification. “Did Caffrey have anything to do with that plane explosion, Peter?  Seems mighty coincidental that it happened right where he was supposed to be meeting his contact.”

“I don’t see how,” Peter answered as artfully as possible without actually lying. “It was most likely an unfortunate coincidence, just like you said. If Neal had been any closer, he probably would have been killed as well.”

Hughes just grunted and returned to his office.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal didn’t answer his phone all day, but the little blinking dot said that he was in his loft on Riverside Drive. Peter let him be. However, on Saturday night, Peter got an unexpected call from Mozzie.

“Neal’s in a bad way, Suit. He’s drunk out of his mind, maybe high on something else, too. He threw me out, but I hear a lot of stuff being smashed inside his apartment. Maybe you need to intervene.”

“On my way,” Peter said worriedly.

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter found Mozzie seated on the floor in the hall with his back against Neal’s door. Right now, it was ominously quiet in the loft.

“Maybe he finally passed out,” Mozzie theorized.

Peter took a deep breath. “Do you have any idea who was behind that explosion, Mozzie?”

The little man shrugged as he stood up. “I haven’t heard any whispers. The streets have been quiet as a tomb. But I do know that Kate was said to be hanging out with some very dangerous and lethal people. Hell, it could have been Keller. Even though he’s in a Russian prison, he may still have a long reach and know people who are willing to do his dirty work. Maybe he thought that if he couldn’t have Kate, then he’d make sure that Neal couldn’t have her either. Any way you look at it, we’re talking about a very tragic ending for everyone. I think the saddest phrase in the English language is ‘ _what could have been_.’ Now, Neal will never know.”

Mozzie then clapped Peter on the shoulder and made his way down the stairs.

Peter took another deep breath and turned the doorknob. Thankfully, it wasn’t locked. He found Neal leaning against the kitchen table amidst a chaotic mess of slashed paintings and broken crockery. A half-full bottle of single malt Scotch sat on the table. Peter didn’t see a glass.

“Did you get it all out of your system, Champ?” Peter asked softly.

“Fuck you!” Neal responded blearily as he turned and swayed in place.

“I’m really sorry, you know,” Peter said as he slowly approached a belligerent Neal.

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Peter. You’re not sorry. You probably hated Kate. Hell, maybe you’re the one who made sure to get rid of her— _permanently_ ,” Neal sneered, putting a drunken emphasis on the last word.

“That’s ridiculous, and if you were sober you’d know that,” Peter answered as he tried to get an arm around Neal’s shoulder with the intention of steering him to the couch.

Neal caught Peter off guard. The inebriated young man pivoted, pulled back his right arm, and tried to connect with a roundhouse to Peter’s jaw. He seriously overbalanced and went sprawling.

“If hitting me will somehow make it better, Neal, then have at it,” Peter said as he sat down on the floor next to his CI.

Neal stared hard at the man beside him. “I think that I really hate you right now, Peter. You’re acting all nice and comforting, but you don’t give a damn about me and you really don’t want me around. I’m just somebody that you’re stuck with and grudgingly use to solve cases. Afterward, you kick me to the curb when you get what you need. Oh wait, that’s not right. I misspoke. You _do_ want Neal Caffrey, con man extraordinaire, for my expertise, but you really don’t want _me—_ Neal, the flesh and blood person. And you _obviously_ don’t want my body. I don’t know why. It’s a fairly nice body. Other people have thought so. I’ll bet your wife thinks so. Please tell me why you don’t.”

“Neal, now is not the time for this conversation. Let’s get you on your feet and into bed,” Peter said as he hoisted the con man up to stand on shaky legs.

Inch by inch, they edged their way across the room. Suddenly, Neal collapsed into Peter’s chest and he heaved a trembling sigh that seemed to come from deep in his heart. “I can’t do this anymore,” he mumbled into Peter’s shirt. “I just can’t! I am so, so …done!”

Peter wasn’t quite sure what Neal meant by that revelation, and didn’t want to overthink a drunken utterance. Nonetheless, it could be the harbinger of something self-destructive that Peter didn’t want to contemplate. Not knowing what else to do, he kept urging Neal onward. He didn’t think that the young man was even aware of being placed on his bed. He was in an alcohol or drug induced stupor where things were distorted and surreal. He looked loose and boneless atop the mattress of that expensive tiger oak bed with the million plus thread count sheets. He also looked pitifully young and vulnerable. Peter removed Neal’s shoes and then perched beside him. He reached out tenderly to push the unruly mess of bangs out of the slumbering man’s face. Suddenly, a hand trapped his and held on tightly.

 “Please don’t go right now. Just stay for a while .... just a …. little while,” Neal slurred.

It was at that moment in time that Peter knew he was going to lose the battle, maybe even the war. He slid down next to Neal and put his arms around a hard body that was much too thin and placed a chaste kiss on a sweaty brow. That wasn’t enough for Neal who suddenly molded to Peter’s chest once again.

“Just pretend that you aren’t you tonight, Peter. Just be somebody who wants to dance with me,” he begged in a forlorn voice.

“I think that I’m right where I need and want to be right now,” Peter answered softly.

Neal’s fingers were drunkenly uncoordinated as he fumbled with the buttons on Peter’s shirt. The belt buckle was beyond the capability of his usually nimble hands.

“I’ll do it,” Peter whispered. “Just lie still.”

After an FBI agent who wasn’t an FBI agent that night quickly divested himself of his clothing, he then set to work on the slow striptease of Neal’s. As a shirt was removed, Peter ran a hand up a ripped abdomen to finely sculpted pectorals. He leaned down to trace the tip of his tongue around the shell of an ear before trailing kisses down a pale neck and then on to aroused nipples that were standing at attention. Neal arched his back and drew Peter upward again until he could pull him into a deep, carnal kiss. Peter took, and Neal gave, letting Peter’s tongue ravage his own.

Peter arousal was swift and pulsating. A palm of a hand over Neal’s trousers made a seducer realize that the young man’s passion matched his own. Peter pulled away from the deep kiss and made quick work of a belt and a zipper. Neal tried to help, but, thanks to the liquor, his normally fluid movements were graceless and clumsy.

“Just lift your hips,” Peter murmured hoarsely.

Now Peter loomed over a beautiful body of long, well-muscled legs, inviting hips, and a fevered cock that was rigid against Neal’s abdomen. The stranger inhabiting Peter’s body needed to feel the contours and the heat, so he gave himself free rein to explore and revel. He touched, and he tasted what lay before him as Neal writhed and moaned. He kissed the small scar on an elegant shoulder and, with the tip of his tongue, outlined the perimeter of another scar along a ribcage. That was a remnant left by a chest tube over a year ago. It reminded Peter that he had almost lost Neal back then, but now he was lucky enough to feel him in his arms and have this.

Neal was panting as Peter slid down and took him into his mouth. An ardent lover used his tongue to tease and titillate unmercifully. During this sensual massage, he fondled Neal’s balls and let a finger explore the tight ring of muscle behind them. Suddenly, Neal arched up once more, drew in a fevered breath, and came in hot spurts across his own belly. Peter let his fingers trail through the ribbons of warm cum and use it as lubrication to insert a finger inside the spent young man.

Peter made the stretching and scissoring erotic as well, finally reaching that place at Neal’s center that caused the young man’s cock to jerk. A determined lover rubbed a finger against the prostate gland which served to elicit more soft moaning from the man beneath him.

“Roll over, Neal,” Peter finally demanded in a voice that he didn’t recognize as his own.

When Peter slowly pushed into Neal, he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stifle his reaction. He closed his eyes hard, making swirling colors appear behind his eyelids. The sight of Neal’s rounded ass and sleek bare back, however, were already imprinted on his retina. Peter made himself go still as he tried to even out his breathing. He let a hand trace down the line of Neal’s spine, feeling each and every vertebra before resting in the curvature near the fissure of his buttocks.

“Peter…” Neal whined. “Please fuck me—fuck me hard so that is the only thing that I can feel tonight.”

That pitiful plea to escape a tortured reality of loss was enough to galvanize an accommodating Peter into action. He tried to keep his thrusts even and smooth at first, but eventually he lost control of this runaway train and let his primal id take over. It was as glorious as he had imagined it would be, and he rutted with a fevered intensity. This was what he had fantasized, and now it was real and as intense as any wet dream. He pistoned away while Neal’s panting and moaning spurred him on. Peter finally came with a fevered cry and felt his own cum claim this man as his own. When he managed to come back to earth, he sank down atop the body beneath him and languidly licked the salty sweat from Neal’s neck. Eventually, his now spent and flaccid cock slid from its host.

“Caffrey, you are my Achilles Heel and probably always will be,” he whispered as he again positioned himself by Neal’s side.

A sad little quirk tightened the side of the young man’s mouth.

“But we got to dance, Peter. We got to dance,” he whispered softy.


	24. Chapter 24

Although Neal had finally surrendered to a deep and oblivious sleep, Peter found that he remained wide awake. The enormity of what had just transpired caused hot waves of remorse to wash over him. You could try to take the man away from Catholic guilt, but the boy who was educated by the Jesuits still lurked in his psyche. This had been so wrong. It had been a grievous sin. He had taken advantage of a vulnerable human being, and probably caused as much harm as any lethal bullet.

Peter willed himself to get up and get dressed. He quietly picked up the broken and jagged shards of glass and china that littered the room. Then he stuffed pieces of torn canvas into the trash can. He glanced over to the bed, but Neal hadn’t moved. Peter knew that he couldn’t just walk away. So, he retrieved his coat from the floor and pulled one of his professional cards from his wallet. With a few quick strokes of a pen, he tried to mitigate what he had done tonight.

_“I’m sorry, Neal. This never should have happened. It was a mistake.”_

He left the card on the dining table and quietly slunk from the loft. He arrived home and slowly walked up the stairs to his wife. Although it was after 2 AM, El still had a small bedside lamp burning. An open book lay across her chest, even though she was soundly asleep. She roused drowsily when she felt the mattress sink as Peter sat down.

“Hon?” she whispered as she turned toward him.

“Yeah, El, I’m here,” Peter murmured as a prelude to what he was about to say.

“Hmm,” El replied as she struggled to sit up against the pillows propped behind her back. Her sweet face was partially in shadow, and that helped Peter to start his confession.

“I was with Neal tonight,” he began.

“I know, Sweetie. How is he doing?”

“No, El, you don’t understand. I was _with_ Neal tonight,” Peter repeated.

“You just said that, Hon,” El seemed puzzled. Then the light dawned.

“Peter, are you saying what I think you’re saying?” she asked softly.

“Yeah, but it shouldn’t have happened, El. He was hurting and out of control and I just wanted to ground him and somehow make it better. Instead, I think I made it worse—really so much worse,” Peter lamented.

“How can being _with_ somebody and doing something out of love and compassion be wrong, Peter?”

“Because it will give him false hope. This thing between us can never be.”

“How did Neal react when you told him that _after_ the fact?” El frowned and asked wryly.

“I didn’t actually say it to his face. I left a note,” Peter said as the guilt started gnawing at him again.

El looked down disapprovingly as she clasped her hands in her lap. Although her voice was low, her words were painful to hear, and they cut to her husband’s core.

“Peter, I have never known you to be a cruel person, but what you did tonight—leaving it like that—was definitely cruel, beyond hurtful, and so very much more.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Elizabeth remained cool towards her husband the next morning and even skipped the traditional “love you” farewell when she walked out the door on Monday morning. Peter knew he deserved her critical distain and wondered how Neal was going to react at the White Collar office when he arrived.

Peter was on tenterhooks until he saw Neal push through the glass doors on the 21st floor. His dark suit, complete with a pocket square, was pristine, and the classic fedora was perched jauntily on his head. He had a tall coffee in his hand, and without even a glance up at Peter’s office, sat down at his desk and powered up his computer. They crossed paths later that day as they sat around the conference table with other agents brainstorming a way to catch a clever and slippery forger. Neal offered some insights when prompted, but, for the most part, remained subdued and quiet. To Peter, he looked brittle and elusively disconnected.

As the meeting broke up, Peter put a hand on Neal’s arm. The con man looked up with raised eyebrows and vacant eyes. Peter didn’t see a spark of anger or condemnation cross his placid expression. He just saw emptiness.

“Nothing,” Peter mumbled and released his grip.

“Is he okay?” Diana asked as she stood beside her boss and watched the retreat of Neal’s back. It was unusual for the hard-as-nails female agent to express worry or concern about Peter’s CI.

“Yeah, probably just experiencing some flashback stuff after that explosion,” Peter equivocated. “I guess it may take some time for him to get up to snuff again.”

However, Neal never seemed to “get up to snuff” during the following days and weeks. Sure, he did his job and performed magnificently. He was going through the motions with brilliant success, but every agent in the bullpen wondered where the amiable, witty clown with the teasing grin had gone. That persona was greatly missed.

Now, most often, Neal accompanied Jones or Diana on surveillance or fact-finding missions. He was always courteous but never engaging, gently but firmly rebuffing their offers of lunch or drinks after work. When he encountered Peter, he hid behind a docile but cool façade. He never, ever mentioned _that_ night to his handler. Neal had become an island, and he wasn’t allowing anybody to come ashore.

Of course, Peter worried. He kept the map of Neal’s whereabouts up on his phone 24/7. However, that didn’t enable Peter to see what Neal was actually doing during his downtime away from the rigid schedule at the office. Mozzie was ducking Peter and not returning calls, so there was no help coming from that quarter. Finally, in desperation, he asked Jones and Diana if they would take turns sitting on Neal’s home for a few nights. Their verbal reports the next week were unsettling for Peter.

“Most nights, he leaves around eight and frequents bars and clubs. He’s usually home by midnight, but he’s never alone. There has been a steady stream of beautiful young woman and some equally attractive young men who have spent the night. One at a time, of course,” Jones clarified. “Man, that dude must have some stamina to keep up that pace!”

Diana had seen the same thing, although occasionally she had spotted Mozzie visiting earlier in the evening. “He never stays long, and he could be visiting June Ellington instead of Neal,” she theorized. “Do you want me to grab him the next time he pops his head up?”

Peter sighed. “No, just leave things progress as they are. I was just trying to get a handle if Neal was up to something. Have any of his other visitors come back more than once? That may mean something.”

“Nah,” Jones and Diana said almost in unison. “It’s a new face each time, and nobody seems to warrant an encore.”

“Thanks, guys,” Peter said. “I’d appreciate it if you would keep all of this between us.”

“Sure, boss,” Diana replied.

“You got it, Peter,” echoed Jones.

Peter theorized that if Neal was burning the candle at both ends, eventually that would affect his work. And that would provide Peter with an opportunity to have a heart-to-heart talk with him and clear the air, once and for all. However, before it came to that critical juncture, a request came in for Neal to be temporarily assigned to another unit. Unbelievably, it was Ruiz in Organized Crimes who had asked for Neal’s help.


	25. Chapter 25

“We need some smarmy guy with a silver tongue to get Tony Serrano talking,” Ruiz explained to Hughes and Peter. “He’s a Mafia Don’s nephew and has about as much intelligence as a brick. He’s got a face like one, too,” Ruiz added.

“So, what is Neal supposed to do to improve this fellow’s unfortunate shortcomings?” Peter asked with dread.

“Well, you see,” Ruiz began with a wicked little smile on his face, “poor Tony has trouble making friends, especially friends of the male persuasion. And he really likes to have those kinds of friends, if you get my drift. We heard he tends to get a little rough and possessive, and even willing guys get a bit freaked out by that kind of stuff. Now, your boy Caffrey is a handsome dude. Even though he’s a ladies’ man, he could probably tempt old, ugly Tony and maybe offer him some much-needed companionship. Tony just might want to impress his pretty new friend during some cozy pillow talk and tell him how the Mob is getting their drug shipments through New York customs.”

Peter was livid. “So, what your proposing is that Neal pimp himself out to some sadistic, dangerous pervert so that you can make a bust!”

“Caffrey’s a con man, so I’m sure he could get into character for our little sting. Becoming somebody else should be second nature to him,” Ruiz said smugly.

Peter turned to Hughes. “You’re not actually going to approve this request, are you, Reese?”

The old man shrugged. “Caffrey’s deal was that he was going to do whatever it takes to nab the bad guys. Get over it, Peter.”

Neal was brought in and given his undercover assignment. He didn’t bat an eye, or even look back as he left the office with Ruiz.

Two weeks later, Peter’s CI was returned, looking no worse for wear to his handler’s probing eyes. Ruiz, however, was singing Neal’s praises as he briefed both Hughes and Peter.

“I have a whole new respect for your Boy Wonder, Burke. He must have nerves of steel, be suicidal, or just plain bumfuck crazy. Let me clue you in. Caffrey manages to get the critical info, tells us about a warehouse in Queens, and slam, bam, we close the net. Trouble is, old Tony ain’t going down easy. He’s standing in the middle of that warehouse with a hostage, waving around a pistol, and ranting like a lunatic. Caffrey strolls in with ice water in his veins and walks right up to this psycho. He yanks the scared shitless warehouse manager free and clocks Serrano, who goes down for the count with the Luger still clutched in his grubby hand. It was larger-than-life impressive!”

“You have some nerve putting a valuable asset in harm’s way, Ruiz. He could have been killed!” Peter said heatedly.

“Hey, I certainly didn’t tell him to go all Terminator on Serrano. That was his idea. It wasn’t in our script,” Ruiz argued as he flounced from Hughes’ office.

“I don’t see a problem here, Peter. Everything worked out for the best,” the old man said.

“Yeah, maybe this time it did, but what about the next time?” Peter said cynically.

~~~~~~~~~~

Unfortunately, there were many next times, and now it was Peter who was questioning Neal’s mental state.  His actions during dangerous stings and take downs never put anybody’s life in jeopardy except his own. It was very disconcerting because Neal didn’t seem to care, spontaneously acting with reckless abandon.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed, you idiot?” Peter roared at one such scene as he actually shook Neal by the lapels of his coat.

Neal pulled away roughly, shot the French cuffs on his shirt, and straightened his tie. “Just doing my job as outlined in my parole agreement, Peter. Gotta keep your win statistics up there in the stratosphere. After all, keeping up appearances means everything, or so I have been told.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“You need to have a talk with him, Peter,” El said wisely as Peter paced their small kitchen and told her of his frustration.

“And say what, exactly?” Peter wanted to know. “Do I say, 'Neal, I’m very sorry for hurting your feelings. Now please stop giving me a heart attack with your stupid stunts.'”

Elizabeth snorted. “What you should say is that you’re sorry for being a coward and a hypocrite, Peter, because that, dear husband, is exactly what you are!”

“El, I have his best interests at heart!” Peter argued.”

“Oh, no, Peter, that excuse is getting old.”

“I am neither a coward nor a hypocrite. I don’t know how you can accuse me of that.” Peter said heatedly.

“Oh really!” El retorted. “Peter, you are very much a coward because you refuse to face facts and own them. You are so afraid of admitting that not only are you sexually attracted to Neal, you probably have grown to love him as well. By denying your own feelings, you hurt Neal in the worst way. You were a coward because you didn’t tell him that you cared when he needed to hear it the most. You chose to leave him a note like what had happened between the two of you was just a pity fuck!”

“It wasn’t like that, El,” Peter tried to defend himself.

“Well, if I were Neal, that’s how I would have interpreted your insensitive actions,” El answered as she continued her tirade. “And you’re a hypocrite as well, Peter. You claim that you want Neal to be happy and move on so that he can find someone to love. Yet, you had your fellow agents keep tabs on his personal life, and when you found out that he brought people home, it ate away at you.”

“That’s because Neal was simply reacting to rejection and was being carelessly wanton. It was a recipe for disaster.” Peter tried to smooth that one over.

“No, Peter, it was jealousy, pure and simple. I think that you were afraid that someone might replace you. And that green-eyed monster rose up again when Ruiz took Neal. You stomped around here like a kid who had to relinquish his favorite toy.”

“I was worried about Neal being around a depraved sociopath, El.” Peter tried that out as an excuse.

El was frustrated and threw up her hands. “Stop being in denial, Peter. You’re a better man than that. You know that I’ll always love you, Hon, but sometimes liking you is hard.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter mulled over those damning words, and finally concluded that they were true. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he suddenly didn’t like the man staring back at him. He needed to cowboy up and make this right. So, that Sunday morning, he informed his wife that he would be visiting Neal and getting everything out in the open, once and for all. It might work out well, or it could all crash and burn right there in Neal’s loft. Right now, Peter wasn’t sure of anything.

“I’m coming with you, Peter,” El said with a determined air. “After all, I’ve got a dog in this fight, too. I don’t want any misconceptions. Neal needs to know how I feel about him, as well as your intentions now that you’ve faced your demons.”

“That’s fair, El. You need to be in on this, even if it’s just to prevent me from stepping all over my tongue and acting like an asshole.”

The determined couple took the Taurus and set out for Riverside Drive. Neal’s anklet information told them that he was home. They didn’t say much to each other during the drive, both lost in their own deep thoughts. A maid let them in and they climbed the three flights of stairs, stopping to knock softly on the door to the loft.

“It’s open, June,” Peter heard Neal’s voice from deep within the room.

Taking a calming breath, Peter opened the door with El at his side. “It’s not June; it’s us.”

Neal turned away from an easel with a paintbrush in his hand. Mozzie was also present. He was sitting at the dining table with magnifying lenses perched atop his normal glasses. A collection of small metal cogs was arrayed before him which he quickly scooped into his lap.

“Huh, this is certainly a surprise,” Mozzie murmured as he looked at the uninvited guests suspiciously.

Peter ignored the little bald man and addressed Neal directly. “We need to talk.”


	26. Chapter 26

“Well, that certainly sounds ominous,” Mozzie muttered with a disapproving air.

Neal had nothing to add. He had put down his paintbrush and now had his arms crossed over his chest. It was a classic defensive posture and spoke volumes. His expression was bland as he rocked back on his heels and studied his handler.

“Could you maybe disappear, Mozzie?” Peter said rather forcefully. “This is a private matter that we’ve come to discuss.”

“I would be happy to leave, Suit. It doesn’t take a brick wall to fall on me to get the idea that I’m not wanted,” Mozzie pouted. “Mrs. Suit, may I escort you to a safe haven—perhaps a fallout shelter to protect you when the missiles start flying and the bombs start dropping?”

“Thanks, Moz, but I think that I need to stay,” El answered with a fond smile.

“So, you’re the designated referee in this upcoming little donnybrook,” Moz theorized. “I applaud your valor.”

With that pronouncement, Mozzie collected his tools and his bits and pieces of metal and left the room.

After Mozzie departed, Peter walked closer to Neal and studied the pastel painting in progress.

“Is that a Degas?” he asked to break the ice.

“No, it’s a Caffrey,” Neal sniped with a challenge in his eyes.

“I wasn’t insinuating that you were, you know, forging something,” Peter said hastily.

Neal cut to the chase. “What do you want, Peter? And why have you brought Elizabeth?”

“It’s like I said, Neal, we need to talk—all of us. Can we maybe sit down for this discussion?” Peter asked politely.

When they were all seated comfortably around the table, Neal tilted his chair back and studied Peter like a bug under a microscope. He didn’t say a word. He just stared.

It was Elizabeth who pushed to get this show on the road.

“Neal, Peter sometimes finds it hard to make certain concessions. However, today is one of those concessions. The two of us have talked at length about his recent actions, and some things need to be clarified. Peter has finally agreed to address these issues with you.”

 “Oh, I think that he made everything abundantly clear a while ago. It’s old news,” Neal answered El, although his eyes never left Peter’s.

“But what I said back then was a lie, Neal,” Peter interrupted. “I was lying to you and I was lying to myself. I just didn’t want to accept the truth because it scared me to death.”

“That’s really hard to believe, Peter. You’ve never been afraid of anything,” Neal snorted.

Elizabeth spoke up. “Think about it, Neal. Why do people lie? Perhaps they do it to protect themselves or others. Maybe they want to cover up what they consider to be a transgression. Maybe people lie because they took something they shouldn’t have, or else they’re afraid of losing something that they already have.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Neal asked.

“Because it explains who I am and my misguided motivations, Neal,” Peter said as he again entered the conversation.

“Neal, I’m finally man enough to admit that I’ve been attracted to you from the very beginning. You’re the whole package—brilliant, beautiful, talented, daring, and something erotically new and forbidden. I had never felt that way about another man, and I couldn’t understand where these feelings were coming from or what they said about me. I always thought that I was an open book, but now new chapters were being added. So, I fell back on denial. I thought that all the lewd thoughts would eventually go away. I had a beautiful sexy wife. Why did I want more?

But the disturbing thoughts didn’t go away, Neal, and when I discovered that those feelings were reciprocated, I became very frightened. So, I gave the excuse that I had to protect you, El, and myself. But the truth of the matter is, I was scared of having you in my life just as much as I was scared of losing you. I thought it was a no-win situation and someone was bound to get hurt. To be quite honest, I was afraid that it would be _me_ getting hurt. So, I pushed you away because I couldn’t take that chance.”

“Didn’t you trust me enough not to hurt you, Peter?” Neal asked.

“Get serious, Neal,” Peter said forlornly. “Look at me and look at you. Why would you want a dull, older man in a boxy Brooks Brothers suit who likes baseball and hotdogs? You’re a handsomely dapper young bon vivant who wears tuxedos like a glove, sips champagne, and nibbles pate. It’s like comparing apples and oranges.”

“So, because you were ‘scared,’ you thought that your great wisdom and omnipotence gave you the right to make my choices for me,” Neal sneered.

“Neal, you _have_ made a lot of bad choices, like bringing home every Tom, Dick, and Harriet for a one-night stand,” Peter retaliated. “That was being stupid.”

Neal looked insulted and reacted with his own verbal attack. “Was the decision to use Jones and Diana to watch me the best utilization of an FBI agent’s time, Peter? Maybe _that_ was stupid, but then I suppose that spying on me via the anklet wasn’t enough for you.”

“You’re right, Neal. What you do in your personal life should be just that—personal. I was wrong and jealous and completely out of line,” Peter admitted. “However, I do have a vested interest in what you do on the job, and acting suicidal like you’ve been doing is fucking scary,” he continued.

Neal responded with a cocky reply. “Maybe it gives me an adrenalin rush and a high, Peter. Maybe you don’t know the real me as well as you think you do. Maybe I’ve been pretending this whole time trying to be what you wanted me to be rather than who I really am. I didn’t become a master thief by being cautious and worrying about working without a net.”

“Guys,” Elizabeth said softly to get the bickering men’s attention, “we’re getting off track talking about repercussions when we need to address the heart of the matter.”

“Which is…,” Neal drawled with a raised eyebrow.

“Which is I want to have a personal relationship with you, Neal, if you’re still willing," Peter admitted. "You can say no, of course, and I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” 

“And I’m on board with that, as well,” Elizabeth chimed in.

Peter looked Neal squarely in the eye. “If that is something that you still want, we’d have to be very discreet and careful. If what we were doing was exposed, the Bureau would claim that I was using my power over you as coercion. The fallout would also negate your deal and you’d wind up back in prison. Those are the risks. Think about it carefully. You don’t have to give El and me an answer now.”

When Neal didn’t respond, Peter and Elizabeth rose and let themselves quietly out of the apartment. They saw Mozzie sitting in June’s parlor with a book in his hand as they made their way to the front door.

“Well, that didn’t take long,” the little man simpered. “Mission accomplished?”

“Not sure yet,” El said with a rueful little smile.

“Am I going to have to mop up any blood when I go back upstairs?” Mozzie asked curiously.

“No, Dear. Peter fell on his sword, but we left Neal in one piece,” El said sweetly.


	27. Chapter 27

Just minutes later, Mozzie strolled back into Neal’s loft.

“I suppose you heard all of that,” Neal said wryly.

“Every angst-filled word,” Mozzie said smugly as he removed the tiny, flesh-colored earbud. “It was a very impressive drama—almost Shakespearean.”

Neal just shrugged his shoulders.

“So, dare I ask—what are you going to decide?” Mozzie was curious.

“I don’t know,” Neal admitted as he ran his hand through his hair.

“C’mon, mon frère. Tell me you weren’t taken in by the Suit’s pitiful and fearful protestations of unrequited love. It’s probably all part of a government-sanctioned conspiracy. Although, I must say, I am very disappointed that the lovely Mrs. Suit is willing to go along with it.”

The young con man merely gave his friend a doleful look.

Mozzie sighed. “Tell me why you would even entertain the thought? That would be just another rope tying you to New York. I am so close to cracking your anklet, Neal. It’s just a matter of time before we can say ‘sayonara’ to this town and be on our way to something better.”

“That’s the thing, Moz. If I run, it’s never going to end. I’ll never be able to come back to New York again. In time, it will be just a poignant memory, and I’m not sure that is what I want. If I stay and serve out my parole, then I get to choose if I want to be here or live in another city or country without always looking over my shoulder. I can still be me instead of someone else with another name and a made-up past.”

Mozzie snorted. “Earth to Neal! The evil government consortium is never going to just let you go on your merry way, no matter how many years you spend tethered to them. They are as much con men as you or I. They are selling you a fantasy.”

Neal didn’t look convinced, so Mozzie kept pushing.

“Look, mon frère, I have been researching possible touchdown areas for the two of us. There’s a lovely little island called Cape Verde off the coast of Africa with no extradition treaty. I heard there’s a guy who’s been living there hiding from the Feds for a couple of decades.

If you’d like a different flavor and a different ocean in which to frolic, there’s Auckland in the Pacific. I’m particularly taken with Waiheke Island. It has the perfect climate to grow grapes. We could start a vineyard.

Then there’s Chile with a similar ecosystem ….”

“Moz, please stop with the hard sell,” Neal pleaded. “I’ll think about your offer as well as Peter’s. You’ll be the first to know of any new developments.”

“Neal,” Mozzie said sadly, “I have seen you through one tragedy after another. I have had to stand back and watch you self-destruct time and again. Unbelievably, you have been able to rise again like the mythical phoenix from the ashes. Don’t think that will always be the case. Sometimes, you can get beaten down so far, you can’t get up again. Don’t let that happen to you.”

After Mozzie decamped with his metal toys and a bottle of Merlot, Neal sat down on the couch and held his head in his hands. His thoughts were all over the place, and he knew that he had to put them into some kind of perspective. So, he mentally envisioned two columns like a spreadsheet, and listed the facts as he knew them. He consciously didn’t label them pros and cons, because that struck too close to his and Peter’s designated roles.

Fact #1: Neal was a realist and recognized that he was needy. He yearned to belong somewhere and have someone want him in their life. Unfortunately, he had never seemed to reach that state of nirvana. His desperate need may have arisen and become a psychological pitfall during his tumultuous childhood. A father had walked out on him during a time when his own self-image was just beginning to take shape. Even his mother left him when she selfishly withdrew into her own world leaving him with no sense that he was valued. The ultimate betrayal, of course, was Kate. She had left him for Keller.

Fact #2: Peter Burke had finally, at the eleventh hour, admitted that he wanted Neal. Elizabeth was icing on the cake. But the little imp in Neal’s mind kept warning that it was all just lip service to get Neal to lower his guard. However, on the flip side, Peter had a lot more to lose if they did this thing and were found out. Sure, Neal would be returned to prison to finish out his sentence, but the duration of that term was slowly being whittled down. Neal had done hard time before and he could do it again if he had to because there was a light at the end of the tunnel. However, Peter risked his whole career if they were found out. He wouldn’t just be sidelined for a time as a punishment. He would be done because the Federal Justice System wouldn’t be granting him any do overs.

Fact #3: Neal was being serious when he told Peter that taking risks and pulling off extraordinary feats was a rush. It made you feel like you were on top of the world and possibly the best forger, con man, and thief in the realm. Neal relished the panache, and wasn’t sure he wanted to give it all up.

Fact #4: If Neal went back to the life, Peter, the friggin’ “Archeologist,” wouldn’t stop until he took Neal down. It could take years, but Neal knew one day it would happen. There would be no compassion or remorse on Peter’s part. He was a lawman before he was ever Neal’s partner, and, in Peter’s mind, there was no wiggle room when it came to crime for profit.

Fact #5: Mozzie had always been there for Neal through thick and thin. Occasionally, the little bald man had his own agenda, but he stuck close because Neal and his talents were Mozzie’s bread and butter. Of course, he was looking out for number one, but Neal certainly couldn’t fault him for that because Mozzie had his own childhood issues. Now the crazy conspiracy theorist had an island dream that he was hawking like a snake oil salesman, but it was Mozzie’s dream, not Neal’s.

Fact #6: Neal could deny all that he wanted, but he recognized that, in reality, he was a conventional guy. Forget the dashing and flamboyant con artist persona. In his heart of hearts, Neal realized that he wanted that “white picket fence” life with a cottage in suburbia, two kids, and a dog. He would never be able to have that with Peter and Elizabeth. He would always be their dirty little secret hidden behind a bedroom door. Could he settle for that and nothing more?

Fact #7: They _wanted_ him, but neither one had used that all-important word—" _love_.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal finally made a decision that day. He decided _not_ to decide anything just yet. Peter hadn’t stipulated that his offer had an expiration date. So, Neal showed up at the White Collar office as usual. Over the next few days, he let the ice floe between himself and his handler thaw just a bit. However, he and Peter were nowhere near resurrecting the easy camaraderie they once shared before everything had happened. Of course, Peter again wanted those one-on-one lunches, but Neal only accepted his invitation if Jones and Diana tagged along. Those two perceptive people realized that something had been slightly altered, and it seemed to be for the better. It was certainly a relief to stop walking on egg shells around Peter and Neal.

To sum it up, everybody was glad to be back to the familiar—solving crimes and taking down the bad guys. Peter was frustrated that he hasn’t gotten an answer from Neal yet, and their partnership remained a bit tenuous. Peter attributed that to a lack of trust on Neal’s part. Peter wondered if he pushed the young man to the wall, would he actually admit that? However, Peter didn’t want to take that route because he suspected that Neal’s psyche was still fragile. So, he continued to watch Neal like a hawk for any small cracks appearing in the façade of his composure that would herald backsliding into reckless, suicidal behavior. As yet, there had been none that he could discern. So, Peter held his breath and waited as they plodded through case after case.


	28. Chapter 28

Peter was never aware that Neal _was_ still vulnerable and did have little flashbacks to that fateful day on the tarmac. Unbidden, those images occasionally appeared like embedded subliminal messages that assaulted Neal’s eyes when he least expected it. He would see minute little glimpses of that terrifying fireball. He heard his voice screaming until his throat was raw. He felt Peter’s strong arms pull him back and away—down, down, down to a dark place. He vaguely remembered voices demanding to know if he was responsible for the explosion, but he remained deaf and mute. Eventually, they gave up and let him be.

A new Neal had been forged soon after that day, one who steadfastly refused to ever show weakness again. Peter’s dismissive post-coital note had been the linchpin in that decision. So, time and again, this strong, new persona went through the motions of living but didn’t allow himself to feel. He simply boomeranged right back into the next case. Neal thought that maybe the FBI stings were his salvation because he was able to pretend to be someone else for a little while. However, there was a downside as the weeks rolled by. He and Peter had reverted back to square one in their relationship.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal muses that sometimes White Collar cases meander off into some very esoteric directions, and this is one of those times. Instead of mundane mortgage fraud, Neal gets to masquerade as a political fixer, and damn but he is good at that! He can talk the talk and walk the walk, and those very attributes afford him entry into the good old boys’ club of backroom deals and corruption. Not surprisingly, that seems to be the inevitable result of granting the wrong people too much power. Neal entertains the idea that, for the most part, straightforward forgers and thieves are far less complicated and nefarious. They are what they are, and they do not need to pretend that they are anything else. Maybe he should do the same.

Of course, all through this little caper, Peter hovers like a mother hen, searching Neal’s face for signs of anxiety. “Please, Peter, give me some credit for being able to compartmentalize my stress,” Neal complains silently in his head. “There will be no need for you to swoop in and save me from a nervous misstep. And, please do not think that you need to save me from myself.”

This new Neal is very intimidating to Peter, and the FBI agent speculates and worries. He wonders how many personas can take up residence in one con man’s body. Neal can turn on the charm and be devastatingly deceitful at the drop of a hat. Then, in the next minute, he is a knight in shining armor attempting to rescue Diana in her undercover role as a prostitute. Peter is curious to know what confidences may have been shared in a ritzy hotel room between his best agent and his CI. Diana never offers any insights, but Peter sees the unguarded, fond looks that she often sends in Neal’s direction when the con man is pre-occupied and doesn’t see.

However, the most rare but frightening instances are when Neal is being candid. Catching Peter in a deceptive untruth, he astounds his handler by stating that he has never lied to Peter—at least not a direct lie. That is a defining moment between two people trying to rebuild a shattered relationship, and it is almost as if Neal is drawing a line in the sand.

The next case brings Neal very, very close to a tipping point where Peter might lose him. Peter ponders how much trauma and misery one man can endure—even if he is the ever-resilient Neal Caffrey? Seeing Mozzie, his longtime best friend, hovering on the brink of death could possibly be Neal’s undoing. How long before he cracks wide open? The usually proficient federal agent knows that he is powerless to fix this, and that is not a comfortable sensation for Peter. A more sickening feeling is that he does not know where to go from here.

Neal is not one to share, so he doesn’t tell Peter that he has come to believe that he is a deadly blight on the landscape of his life. Everyone who ventures into his sphere eventually withers and dies. Then Neal’s shell-shocked brain discards that anthropomorphic comparison and substitutes another more appropriate one. He sees himself as a fatal tsunami, picking up the unsuspecting in a massive tidal wave and then maliciously dashing them back down to their deaths. Mozzie is the latest casualty. Neal sits at his friend’s bedside and wills his strength into the quiet figure, so pale against the white hospital sheets. “Please, please, Moz, don’t leave me as Kate did.” Thankfully, Mozzie hears and stays to fight another day.

~~~~~~~~~~

Time passes, and Neal still hasn’t given Peter an answer even though their relationship has almost gotten back to what it once was. He knows that Peter has questions but is too afraid to ask. “The Archeologist” wants to know the why and the how of a coveted lover.

In a moment of weakness, Neal lets him in a few steps after a case involving a diplomat and his estranged son hits a sore spot for Neal. How could a father, no matter what his differences with his offspring, just jettison that parental relationship like unwanted flotsam from his life? Peter, damn him, had picked up on Neal’s hostility and hung on like a limpet, probing and pushing until Neal had to give him something. Instead of satisfying the FBI agent, the obscure response that Neal grudgingly provided just made him hungry for more.

As always, Peter knows what buttons to push and has a few tricks up his sleeve, putting a night of immunity on the table along with a really cheap bottle of wine. Maybe that elusive thing called trust really does exist because Neal begins to tell the saga—at least parts of it. Neal thought that it would rip open old wounds to talk about Kate, but he is amazed that now he can think about those early days of adoring puppy-love and fascination without his heart threatening to break. Actually, it feels good to share those memories that he has locked away from the light for so long. Damn, he can even revisit his embarrassing arrest in a storage locker without too much angst. He’ll definitely never forget how disappointed Peter seemed, instead of looking utterly pleased with himself. Yep, criminal and cop have a very long history.

When Neal thinks about it, he wonders why he dangled that thread surrounding his secretive, past life in front of Peter in the first place. Neal could have played things close to the vest—he has been doing that for years, so why suddenly open the door for Peter to step through? Lord, most of the time Neal doesn’t understand his emotional side at all! It is so much easier to analyze his criminal bent. He takes things that do not belong to him for the challenge, because he wants them, and simply because they are there for the taking. Parsing hurt boyhood feelings is a hell of a lot harder to fathom.

Eventually, Neal finds himself getting complacent and that is definitely a dangerous thing. He really thought that he had every feeling buttoned-up tight, but, uncharacteristically, it all came spewing out in a fake off-track betting parlor. Peter just pushed hard in what was supposed to be a charade. He started by saying that Neal had been trouble from the start, that he was insubordinate and went behind Peter’s back from the first encounter. So, in retaliation, Peter got an earful of insults as well. Neal reminded him that he had Peter’s back from day one, but every time that something went wrong, Neal was the first person that Peter blamed. Then Peter let something both cruel and hurtful come out of his mouth: _“You’re a con and that’s all you’ll ever be!”_

Okay, Neal thinks to himself, maybe I needed to hear the raw, unvarnished reality. For once, both Peter and I managed to say what we meant. I’m back on track now, he decides, and an intimate relationship with Peter is off the table.

There is a brief intrude in this seesaw battle of wills. Neal connects with an old adversary and he turns lemons into lemonade. Neal lets himself wonder if this could work with feisty Sara Ellis. A new and exciting romance would get him off the hook with Peter and Elizabeth, once and for all. Peter seems to accept this new romance, at least on the surface. Neal suspects that Elizabeth has lectured him on how he should behave. But Neal was misreading Peter. The FBI agent was finally resigned to never having Neal, and he had hoped that Sara would fulfill Neal in a way that Peter never could. When it all comes to a screeching halt, Peter feels sad—sad for Neal and sad for his own stilted relationship with his CI. In a moment of weakness, he reaches out, and he wonders if Neal really hears his words and the true sentiment behind them. _“Yes, Neal, I think you deserve to be happy.”_


	29. Chapter 29

It’s the end of the year and another twelve months have been shaved from Neal’s parole. He suffered through the forced merriment and bonhomie of the office Christmas Party. Peter had given everyone in the bullpen tall insulated tumblers and gift cards to an upscale coffee establishment—the one with baristas who manipulate obnoxiously loud frothing machines.

The next day, Neal brought Peter a coffee mug that said, _“Coffee first; Schemes later.”_

Of course, Peter extended an invitation to Neal to join him and El for Christmas dinner. “Hell, spend the whole day, if you’d like!”

Neal smiled and begged off, and Peter looked disappointed. Thankfully, he didn’t belabor the point.

Christmas was just another quiet and solitary day for Neal. June had gone off to spend her Joyeux Noël in Paris, and the household staff was spending time with their loved ones in homes that probably had twinkling evergreen trees and stockings hung on fireplaces. Mozzie claimed that the holiday was just a blatant opportunity to enhance commercialism, and he wanted nothing to do with it. He told Neal that he was off to the Himalayas to meditate in an ashram.

Neal painted for most of the day and then tried to get interested in the history of the Renaissance Borgia family. Now, that was certainly an impressive fraternity of wicked plotters. At 7 PM, he was interrupted in his reading by the melodious chimes of the front doorbell. He quickly made his way down three flights of stairs and turned on the porch light. It was hard to actually identify the person behind a massive red poinsettia. When he opened the door, he recognized Elizabeth Burke stamping her feet in an attempt to ward off the frigidness of a December evening.

“Come in out of the cold, Elizabeth,” Neal heard himself saying.

“Thanks, Neal,” she answered as she thrust the huge flower pot into his hands. “Just let me grab this box on the porch and then we’re good to go.”

Neal peered around a mass of pointy red leaves and watched Elizabeth lug a cardboard box over the threshold. Peter was nowhere in sight.

“I made a turkey for Christmas dinner,” El explained, “and you really can’t find a small turkey for just two people. So, I’ve brought you some leftovers. There’s also mashed potatoes, corn, and stuffing, and a piece of pecan pie in the box. You’ll have to supply your own alcohol of choice since I knew you wouldn’t welcome any of Peter’s domestic brand of beer. And in keeping with the spirit of the season, I’ve brought you a plant from ‘The Little Shop of Horrors,’" she giggled.

“Well, thank you, I guess,” Neal said uncomfortably.

Elizabeth cocked her head and gave him a tentative little smile. “It’s okay, Neal, there is no ulterior motive. Even though I come bearing gifts, there are no strings attached. It’s very simple. I’ve missed you. Peter gets to see you at the office, but you’ve stopped coming by the house.”

“I think that may be for the best,” Neal said softly.

“Look, Sweetie, it’s obvious that you have made a decision about the direction of your life. Knowing where you want to go, or not go, is a good thing. It helps give you a clarity of purpose and removes a lot of stress. Peter and I never wanted to make you uncomfortable or feel pressured. Maybe we didn’t make that clear enough, but I’m telling you now. We’re okay with any decisions that you’ve made because we just want you to be happy. Don’t cut us out of your life. We want to share your triumphs as well as your tribulations and sorrows. We want to be there for you, Neal, until someone discovers what a wonderful person you are and they make you the light of their life.”

Neal was at a loss for words, and when had a con man with a facile tongue ever had that problem? Elizabeth didn’t seem to mind as she turned back towards the door. “I left the car running, so I’d better go before somebody makes off with it.”

Neal rallied as he snarked, “Do you _really_ think that any self-respecting carjacker wants a Taurus, Elizabeth?”

“Good-bye, Neal,” El said as she slapped him playfully on the arm and skipped down the front steps.

~~~~~~~~~~

 Neal was almost glad to return to the office after the Christmas holiday because it gave him something to do. Neither Peter nor Neal mentioned El’s impromptu visit. The crusty old Grinch, Reese Hughes, had actually sprung for a Keurig machine for the break room, and Peter now routinely used two little K-cups to brew enough coffee to fill his new mug.

Things seemed to remain quiet on the crime front. Neal supposed that even crooks and thieves took a holiday from time to time, or maybe it was too damn cold to pull a caper. By the afternoon, Peter and his CI eventually grew tired of pulling out old cold cases and fighting off bored yawns and wandering attention spans.

“C’mon, Neal, let’s go out,” Peter announced as he threw a folder into a banker’s box.

“Where to?” Neal asked curiously.

“Some place that’s not here,” Peter said mysteriously.

The two men wound up sipping hot chocolate while watching ice skaters loop and twirl at iconic Rockefeller Center.

“I haven’t done this in years,” Peter admitted as his breath came out in frosty little puffs. “New York has a lot of traditions, and you sometimes take them and many other things for granted.”

“You sound a bit introspective and nostalgic, Peter,” Neal mocked. “Are you next going to buy us matinee tickets for ‘The Nutcracker?’”

Peter smiled fondly at the young man beside him. “I guess what I’m saying is, life can be very simple, but sometimes we get sidetracked and forget the fundamentals.”

“And those fundamentals would be?” Neal asked.

“The basic things that make us happy and make us a good person. Of course, it’s only human nature to want more. We don’t really need additional things to make us feel fulfilled, but we want them just the same. We can’t seem to be content with what we already have in our lives. I have you in my life, Neal, in exactly the way that you want to be. I’ve come to terms with that, and I want you to be satisfied and fulfilled in your own way. I now realize that I’ll never change you, and I shouldn’t try to bend and mold you into what I want. That would be me pandering to my ego. One day, when you’re gone from my life, I can only hope that you’ll truly believe that I was happy for the time that you _were_ in my life.”

~~~~~~~~~~

One week later, Neal was alone again, listening to the hollowness of the mansion sigh and creak around him as old houses seem to do. It was New Year’s Eve, and when he ventured out onto the cold flagstone of his terrace, he could hear occasional riotous voices celebrating. It was probably pandemonium in Times Square providing a smorgasbord of goodies for hungry pickpockets.

Neal had no intention of turning on the television and watching the multitude of different young rock bands that he didn’t recognize. That always made him feel old and out of touch. And he wasn’t up for watching a ball or an apple make its descent, or listen to the sweet, nostalgic, and hopeful strains of Auld Lang Syne. He finally admitted that he seemed to be stuck in a state of self-imposed inertia.  

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter had fussed and fiddled with the flue in the fireplace, and after much colorful cursing, the logs had finally caught and the hearth was ablaze. He had a glass of spiked eggnog in his hand and his arm around Elizabeth’s shoulder.

“This is cozy,” El purred. “I can’t remember the last time we had a fire, Peter.”

“That’s because we usually never manage to enjoy a leisurely evening together, Hon,” Peter murmured.

“I know, Peter,” El commiserated. “Your job never seems to take a holiday, and mine is crazy, especially on weekends.”

“Do you want to watch the ball drop,” Peter asked. “I can turn on the boob tube.”

“No, Hon, I like the peace and quiet. We’ll hear the bells ring in the church up the street when the New Year starts. It shouldn’t be long now.”

Those words were barely out of her mouth when they heard other bells—the ones from their own front door. They looked at each other in confusion, and Peter extricated himself from El’s embrace and padded over to the foyer. He found himself opening the door to a bundled up Neal Caffrey with a champagne bottle in his hand.

“Did I make it in time?” he asked breathlessly.

“You did,” Peter said as he drew Neal into an embrace. “You’re right on time!”


	30. Chapter 30

Elizabeth rummaged in a kitchen cabinet and located three champagne glasses while Neal popped the cork on the bottle of bubbly with proficient ease. They decided that the hearth rug in front of the fireplace was the perfect place to be, with Neal in the middle bracketed by the two people who cared about him. Each stared into the mesmerizing flames and let their thoughts tumble through their minds.

“It’s hard to believe that an entire year has flown by,” El said softly.

“It’s hard to believe that I’m still around,” Neal said with a wry smile.

Just then, the three people heard the soft peal of church bells off in the distance.

“Now it’s out with the old and in with the new,” Peter whispered.

“Yeah, a new beginning,” Neal said as he turned to Elizabeth and kissed her gently on the lips.

Then he twisted around to face Peter. There was a question in Neal’s eyes and a longing in his expression.

“I’ll ask you again, Peter. Am I too late?”

Peter smiled. “And I’ll answer you in exactly the same way. You’re right on time!”

The only way to describe the kiss between Peter and Neal was carnal and laden with want and need. A fire had been ignited as intense and hot as the flames in the fireplace. Without having to say a word, the trio rose, and, like sleepwalkers, migrated to the stairs. What followed was a slow dance up the steps to the bedroom. When they finally got where they needed to be, Neal noticed that Elizabeth was hanging back a bit, letting Neal and Peter have center stage in this drama. Neal reached out and drew her into his arms.

“Think of us as the ‘Three Musketeers,’ Elizabeth—one for all and all for one.”

When Peter gave a small nod of his head, Neal kissed his partner’s wife deeply and let his hands roam over her body. Elizabeth moaned and arched her back as hot kisses scorched a trail down her neck and clever fingers undid the buttons on her blouse. Piece by piece, her clothing fell away, and then she set to work on Neal’s.

When they were both gloriously naked, Neal laid Elizabeth gently on the bed. His teeth found her erect nipples as his soft hands kneaded and squeezed. He delved his tongue into the hollow of her navel as his fingers traced the contours of her thighs. Nipping at her hips, Neal let a finger find its way to a nest of curls, and he rubbed soft circles around her womanhood until El was pleading and urging him on. Like a supplicant at an altar, Neal knelt between her bent knees and sensuously unfurled the lips of her labia. Her clitoris was engorged, and he vacillated between licking, sucking, and biting while Elizabeth made guttural sounds in the back of her throat.

When El felt herself moving precariously close to a precipice, she whispered fiercely, “I want you inside of me, Neal. Now, please!”

Suddenly, Neal felt Peter’s hand touch his shoulder. When he looked up, Peter was holding an unwrapped condom in his hands.

“Let me,” he murmured.

When Neal sat back on his heels, Peter sensuously rolled the lambskin down Neal’s throbbing cock. Neal took that as tacit approval for what was to come next. He gently pushed into El’s moist depths and began rocking steadily. She met his thrusts with abandon. Neal closed his eyes and reveled in the wantonness and the need that lay beneath him. The moment should have been perfect, but the face that his mind conjured up was another blue-eyed brunette, and he suddenly faltered. Elizabeth seemed to sense what was happening. She removed her hands from Neal’s shoulders and placed them on either side of the young man’s head.

“See me, Neal,” she whispered. “See me, not some ghost from your past.”

That was enough to pull Neal back to the present. With an agile move, he flipped them both over so that Elizabeth was now astride him. The new position caused friction to El’s clitoris, and she rode him like a stallion. Now two people seemed to meld into one entity, primal and beautiful. Neal managed to hold out until Elizabeth experienced her climax, then a few more deep thrusts took him over the top. Elizabeth rolled to Neal’s side panting, and the con man was fighting to regain his breath as well. He watched with eyes blown wide as Peter sat down on the bed and reached across to his wife. He covered her mouth with his and the kiss was electric.

Neal noticed that Peter was still erect, so he slid down to take the Federal agent in his mouth. His talented tongue circled the glans and then flicked the leaking head. He bore down, almost swallowing the entire length that was swollen with desire. He sucked, and he teased, and it wasn’t long before Neal was swallowing Peter’s cum, hot against the back of his throat.

A few minutes later, all three people were sprawled in a satiated stupor. Neal looked over at his handler and murmured sleepily, “You’ll get your own dance next time, Peter.”

And Peter did, later in the early morning hours of a new year. This time, Elizabeth was the spectator pleasuring herself with her own fingers while Peter pushed into Neal. She decided that they were beautiful together and it all seemed right and predestined.

Eventually, the lovers realized that if they expected to perform any more intense labor, they needed fuel for their bodies. Neal made fluffy omelets and Peter squeezed oranges. Elizabeth just sat at the counter in a robe and smiled at her two men. Of course, there followed some afternoon delight, and it was new and exciting getting to know each other’s hot zones and to master the hang of each other’s rhythms. It was like exploring an exotic jungle.

Peter introduced reality into the situation that evening. “You’ve got a tracking anklet, Neal, and any busybody can view your movements at any time. We can explain away last night and today because it was a holiday, and I can say that I invited you over. However, from now on, we have to be careful because someone is always watching.”

“Mi casa is su casa,” Neal said with a grin.

“Then su casa it is,” Peter said jovially. “Now it’s time for you to get going back to su casa. We’ve got work tomorrow and we have to look presentable and innocent.”

“Even though you probably don’t believe it, I _can_ do innocent, Peter,” Neal chuckled.

Neal left the sanctuary of the Burke home feeling lighter, happier, and somehow more complete. The foray into the forbidden had been hot, exhilarating, exhausting, and wonderful. Maybe it had been wonderful for a specific reason. There had been a lot of four-letter words bantered about during a night and day of passionate abandon. However, there was only one that was important to Neal. That four-letter word was _“love.”_


	31. Chapter 31

Somehow, Agent and CI managed to pull it off the next morning at the office. Neal was amazed at Peter’s natural talent for deception, and gleefully informed him that he had a backup career as a con man if he ever needed it. They spent their days pursuing criminals and most of their nights in each other’s arms in Neal’s loft. Elizabeth pouted when she had an evening event and was missing out, but her men made sure to pacify her when she was around.

They experimented and tried new things, refining moves as they went along to see what worked for them. Both Neal and El encouraged a shy Peter to ask for what he wanted. It took a while, but the tongue-tied man eventually got there. Neal, of course, was a willing participant in anything. He was especially good at role-playing—no surprise about that. He tolerated the toys that Elizabeth somehow found on line, and was even okay with handcuffs, just as long as they stayed in the bedroom. It was magical as only a new clandestine affair could be. Most likely, each of the participants didn’t want to look too far into the future. Right now, they were living in the moment.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was a few weeks later, early on a Sunday morning, when Mozzie came to call. Apparently, he had managed to find his Tao and was reenergized. Neal was sitting bare-chested at the table with a cup of coffee in front of him. Elizabeth was wearing one of Neal’s shirts. Her pedicured toes were tucked beneath her as she placidly sipped her herbal tea. Peter was dressed in jeans with a newspaper in front of him, but his hair was sticking out at all angles and there was a day’s growth of stubble on his face. The tranquility of the scene was broken when there was a soft rattle from beyond the door. In seconds, Mozzie came strutting in and grousing before he ever looked up.

“What’s with the lock, Neal? You know I don’t like locks!” the little bald man was muttering as he pocketed his breaking and entering tools.

“Would you prefer that I leave a sock on the doorknob, Moz?” Neal asked while trying to keep a straight face.

Mozzie glanced up at Neal’s tone, and took in the tableau before him. His eyes grew enormously wide behind his glasses, and suddenly he was grabbing Neal by the arm and dragging him down a back hallway to a secluded dressing room.

“ _Really_ , Neal? I mean, _really?_ Mozzie ranted.

“Really, Moz,” Neal answered with a smile.

“Well, mon frère, you’ve done some dumb things in your time, but this one takes the cake! What were you thinking?”

“This is what I want, Mozzie. Peter and El love me and I love them just as much.”

Mozzie cast his eyes heavenward in a small closet filled with vintage men’s suits.

“Lord, first the village idiot _does_ dumb stuff, and now he’s _saying_ dumb things as well!”

Neal tried to calm his friend. “Mozzie this won’t change anything. It won’t affect our friendship. I’ll still be me and you’ll be you. Really, it’s going to be alright, I promise.”

“How can it ever be alright with ‘The Man’ taking up residence in our inner sanctum? Huh, Neal? Tell me that! I actually feel violated!”

“C’mon, Moz, stop being a drama queen. You can adapt, I’m sure,” Neal answered.

“Listen, Neal, you don’t have to resort to this madness. I’ve finally managed to engineer a way to crack your anklet without alerting your watchdogs. Now you can leave anytime that you want.”

Neal smiled at his dedicated friend. “I appreciate that, Moz, I do. For now, let’s keep that on the back burner just in case I need it in the next few of years.”

Mozzie spread his arms wide and again looked up as if for divine guidance. He opened his mouth to speak, but decided there was nothing left to say. In frustration, he let his arms fall by his side and retreated back to the scene of the crime. He stopped momentarily, and again mirrored his action of raising his arms with palms up in supplication. His mouth opened but no words came out. He tried again, but he just resembled a fish gulping for air. With a disdainful snort, he left the loft just minutes after he arrived.

“I take it that your cohort in crime is not happy,” Peter ventured a guess.

“He’ll get over it. It will just take some time for the shock to wear off,” Neal said with a wry smile.

Neal knew his friend well, and, in a few weeks, Mozzie became more tolerant. He now texted before stopping by for a visit, and resumed trading recipes with Elizabeth once more. He still could not bring himself to call Peter by his given name. Neal’s new lover would always remain “The Suit.” Nonetheless, Neal was appreciative of Mozzie’s small concessions, and their relationship endured even though the bald misanthrope still complained that the enemy was looming at the gates of their fortress. He should have stopped concentrating on Peter because there was another danger who arrived to storm their castle.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was late on a Friday evening at the White Collar office. Miracle of miracles, Peter and Neal had finally unraveled the Mortenson loan scandal and arrests would take place the next day as soon as warrants were obtained. Peter had sent Neal home a bit early in appreciation for a job well done. Peter and Diana were just about finished getting everything down in writing when a tiny dynamo strode purposefully into the bullpen. Philip Kramer, his face hard and determined, marched up the steps to Peter’s office.

“Phil, what brings you all the way up here from Washington?” Peter asked with dread.

“This!” Kramer said fiercely as he slapped down a document onto Peter’s desk. “It’s a warrant for Neal Caffrey’s arrest for the murder of one of the citizens of my town.”

Peter was shocked. “That’s ridiculous, Phil. Neal would never kill someone. Where did you get your information because it can’t be right?”

Kramer retaliated by slapping down a second document onto the desk.

“This time I have all my ducks in a row, Petey, and Caffrey’s going down big time. That’s a sworn affidavit by an actual witness who saw your boy shoot ‘Nathan Hinson’ in cold blood during a transaction to sell that Botticelli that was never recovered. Now where is the little creep?”

Kramer’s strident tone had managed to get everyone’s attention, including Reese Hughes’. The old man stepped out of his office and gave the two-fingered summons. “My office—now!”

Hughes was steely-eyed and glaring. “Agent Kramer, the last time that I checked, the plaque on my door said that I was the ASAC in this office. As a professional courtesy, you should have informed me first of relevant facts about an employee of _my_ team.”

“Fine,” Kramer snapped. “It’s really very simple. Caffrey is a murderer and we have notarized, documented testimony given by a credible witness to substantiate that fact.”

“I’ll need to see your evidence before I get on board with this,” Hughes equivocated.

As if by magic, the documents were handed to him by Diana. Clinton Jones was hovering in the background. The two members of Peter’s team had already gone on high alert. They had put the names of the deceased and the witness into their search engines to get a jump on Kramer’s ludicrous claim. Caffrey was now one of their own, and they were determined to have his back.

“Where’s Caffrey right now, Peter?” Hughes asked after he had scanned all the pages before him.

“He’s probably at home. I let him go a bit early because we had finally wrapped up a cold case,” Peter answered as he pulled up Neal’s tracking data on his phone.

Hughes eyed the blinking dot and sighed. “Bring him back in here for questioning, Peter. We need to hear what he has to say and get to the bottom of this.”

“What we need to do is arrest him,” Kramer said forcefully. “That’s what I intend to do. You can have your agents or the Marshals accompany me when that happens. I think Agent Burke needs to be there, as well, to see me put cuffs on his pet project.”

“Well, gentleman, you can all fall in line and form a parade, for all I care. Just get Neal Caffrey back in here so that I have the opportunity to question him before you spirit him off to DC,” Hughes dictated. “You’re in my town now, Agent Kramer, so play nice.”

Now it was Peter’s face that was hard as he turned to Kramer. “Agent Jones can ride with you, and Agent Berrigan will come with me,” he said as he again pulled his phone from his pocket and began to text.

“What are you doing, Petey?” Kramer was immediately suspicious.

“Just texting my wife to let her know that I won’t be home for dinner,” Peter said innocently.

“That’s not important right now, so you can stop with the ploys to delay the inevitable.”

“If you were a happily married man, Phil, you’d know that it _is_ important to keep your significant other in the loop,” Peter said snidely.

Kramer was disbelieving and looked over Peter’s shoulder. The text was addressed to El Burke and was terse and to the point. _“No dinner tonight, Cassandra.”_

“Cassandra?” Kramer questioned.

“A pet name, Phil, as if that’s any of your business,” Peter said in disgust.

In reality, _“Cassandra”_ wasn’t an endearment. It was actually a code word that three people had devised and that El would surely understand. “ _Cassandra”_ was a Greek princess in mythological lore who was endowed with the gift of prophesy. Her “second sight” enabled her to foresee future dire threats and tragedies that were about to unfold. El would know that Peter had sent a coded warning to alert Neal of imminent danger lurking on the horizon.


	32. Chapter 32

During the ride to Riverside Drive, Diana filled Peter in on the information that she and Clinton Jones had unearthed.

“This ‘Nathan Hinson’—the man who was murdered, wasn’t some upstanding citizen, Peter. It was a well-known fact that he was the consiglieri for a DC mob boss. The word on the street at the time of the murder was that some rival factions were making a statement. The Johnny-Come-Lately ‘witness’ was Hinson’s chauffeur/bodyguard. That dude’s name is Sal Aparicio, and he has a sheet a mile long. The cops couldn’t prove everything, but they did manage to make arson and drug-trafficking stick so that he did time. Just recently, they arrested him again in a murder-for-hire sting, and, since he was now a three-time loser, he was going down for the count. How coincidental that he suddenly remembered pertinent information about a crime that happened years ago. What’s even more bizarre is the fact that Agent Kramer let this thug barter his testimony for a pass on that recent arrest.”

“I hate to say this,” Peter told Diana, “but this manufactured charade makes Philip Kramer almost as dirty as his witness. He’s blinded by an obsession to take Neal down—either by legal or less than legal means.”

“And Neal doesn’t stand a chance,” Diana mused, “because it will be the word of a paroled criminal CI against a dedicated Federal agent’s with years of service under his belt. It’s a slam dunk who the authorities are going to believe.”

“Yeah, a no-win situation for Neal,” Peter said softly.

When the little motorcade reached the stately mansion, four people exited their cars and trooped up the stairs to Neal’s loft. The door was unlocked, and Kramer was the first to burst in with a gun in his hand. Everything was neat and orderly and silent. The only thing out of place was a tracking anklet. Instead of being on Neal’s leg, the bulky apparatus was sitting innocuously on the dining table, intact, with it’s little green light shining innocently.

“Son of a bitch!” Kramer swore. “You warned him, Peter, and now the bastard’s in the wind!”

“Exactly how did I warn him, Phil? Did I send him a telepathic message with my mind? Get some perspective on this before you go off half-cocked and say things that you can’t take back.”

“You’ve obviously chosen a side, Petey,” Kramer said heatedly. “It’s the wrong side and you’ll come to regret your choice.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Of course, Hughes was less than thrilled with this turn of events. It was now a runaway train barreling full-tilt down a steep slope. He reluctantly set the wheels in motion for a manhunt. Neal Caffrey now had the distinction of being Public Enemy #1 on the Bureau’s hit parade. Thankfully, Hughes declined from telling Peter, _“I told you so.”_

The days turned into weeks with no sightings of the escapee or even a hint of his existence. Peter and El began to breath a little easier. That was foolish on their part because Philip Kramer wasn’t done yet. When the stymied, bitter man had a score to settle and a vendetta to fuel, he instituted a scorched earth policy.

One month later, Sal Aparicio, Kramer’s star witness amended his statement. Now Peter was included in the intrigue because the lying bodyguard claimed that he had knowledge that Peter Burke was complicit in the murder.

“He was there that night as well,” Aparicio swore under oath, “and helped cover it up. I remember thinking to myself that it was pretty handy to have a Fed in your pocket. I guess Burke was getting something out of it, too.”

Peter was blindsided when Hughes demanded his gun and badge as he was taken into custody.

“Reese, you can’t actually believe these untrue accusations,” Peter pleaded.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe, Peter. It all boils down to what the evidence is saying, and right now it looks bleak for you. I can’t just circle the wagons to protect you. This thing is too big and is taking on a life of its own. Have your wife get you a good lawyer, Peter, because you’re going to need one.”

~~~~~~~~~~

El managed to cash in a life insurance policy, and then obtain a second mortgage on the Burke townhouse as well. That was barely sufficient capital to get Peter a lawyer and to arrange for his bail. Although Peter was no longer behind bars, the hits still kept coming. With this damning accusation out in the open, the Bureau was forced to look at very case that Peter and Neal worked in the past. When everything was scrutinized under a microscope, some disturbing things came to light. It seemed that many times Peter had allowed his CI a wide latitude to obtain necessary information to make a case. In several instances, the methods Neal employed were less than legit. Unfortunately, that would place all of those convictions in jeopardy of being overturned. Even if Peter somehow managed to prove his innocence about the Hinson murder, his career as a Federal agent was now ancient history.

“I heard from Mozzie,” El told Peter one night at dinner. “He says that maybe it’s time for you and me to take a little vacation. He claims that he can make that happen.”

“El, I can’t run away from this,” Peter said tiredly. “I have to believe that the system will eventually get it right and Kramer’s sordid persecution will end.”

“Oh, Peter, please get your head out of the sand,” El said irritably. “Kramer is making sure that you’re going to prison. He’s never going to show any mercy. The ‘system’ that you believe in has turned its back on you as well, and has left you twisting in the wind.”

“So, what are you saying, El? Do we just leave everything behind and walk away?”

“Please tell me exactly what we are leaving behind, Peter?” El asked quietly. “Are you talking about your upcoming conviction after a ludicrous trial, or maybe you’re referring to your lengthy prison stay? Perhaps you’re thinking of your pension that you’ll never get to spend because you’ll be behind bars. Do you think that you’ll miss this house, Hon? Well, maybe you will when the bank forecloses because we can’t pay the now exorbitant mortgage. You no longer have a job, Peter, and my catering business has imploded. Clients have left in droves after the news of your arrest hit the paper. Now, please, tell me again what we would be sacrificing by leaving.”

 

Epilogue

Six months later, a dedicated and fussy oenophile was inspecting the fat purple pinot noir grapes on his vines. Almost, but not quite ready for harvesting, he decided. In due time, their nectar would be decanted in his tasting room where a “copy” of a Botticelli painting hung. While the little vintner toiled away at his latest fascination, a pretty and vivacious blue-eyed brunette was conducting tours of an enchanting nearby town with a long and interesting history. She was very knowledgeable, and her appealing tales kept her audience’s rapt attention. Down in the Viaduct Basin, where the America’s Cup races had been held, a sleek sailboat was tacking in the wind. Two men, bronzed by the elements, let the salty breeze ruffle their hair as they maneuvered their craft neatly through the sea. One was an accountant taking a day off from his job at a local branch of an international bank. The other younger man was playing hooky from his responsibilities as curator of the Auckland Art Museum, home of some prestigious works by Cezanne, Picasso, Matisse, and Gauguin, to name just a few.

A glorious sun was smiling down on these expats who were enjoying a good life—a calm, unencumbered new existence without danger or regrets. After a long and sometimes torturous journey through the years, three contented and fulfilled people now felt safe to dance the night away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who has managed to make it to the end of this story that just seemed to grow and grow as I wrote it. I sincerely appreciate your kudos and comments which are like manna from heaven to a writer who constantly doubts herself and keeps worrying, “Are readers going to like this?”


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